


Disney High: Teachers' Conference

by IncurableNecromantic



Series: Disney High AU [3]
Category: Disney - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once every two years, all the teachers in the state meet for the early-summer Educators Symposium.  This thrusts our stalwart Cogsworth and his overly-merry band of compatriots against the arch-rival of Walt Disney Public School:  Walt Disney Private School.  Everybody's got a history, and remaining civil is going to be difficult.  But Cogsworth is determined to see it through in a most business-like fashion, even with Lumiere sleeping in his hotel room and frights, sights, and unexpected delights coming from and happening to his colleagues.  Torrid affairs, general cattiness, and adults behaving badly are just a few events in the next few days...is anyone going to survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Your Match

**Author's Note:**

> Once and again, all of this is Blaze's brain child--I am playing in her sandbox. A lot of this is tweaked to suit my purposes, so it is entirely fanfiction for her Walt Disney High AU. Thanks, Blaze!

Cogsworth looked at the list of room assignments with a discriminating eye. It had been tacked up in the teacher's lounge for the whole of the spring semester, and it was finally time to calculate the appropriate sleeping arrangements. The list would determine where pairs of people would retire for the teacher's conference.

Held every other year, almost always in an unwisely exotic location, the annual educator's symposium fell in early summer, just after school let out. Everyone seemed to look forward to it, despite bi-yearly complaints about trundling into a single vehicle and the colleagues that were met at the conference. 

Cogsworth hated it. Aside from himself, perhaps only Mr. Sebastian, Mr. Zazu, and Mr. Bagheera actually looked at the conference as a work assignment, and they had proven to be tempted and inclined to straying. (Frankly, he'd never seen someone backpedal out of responsibility as fast as Mr. Sebastian had when he'd heard there was a steel drum band playing on the other side of town. Poof! Gone. It had almost been impressive.) Everyone else apparently thought of it as a paid vacation, and it inevitably fell to Cogsworth to try to nanny-goat everyone into behaving.

He carefully removed the tack from the sheet of paper, smoothing his mustaches as he looked at the assignments. Gene and Mushu—oh, good of them to room together—Baloo and Bagheera—ah, roommates, a logical choice, very economic—Jumba and Pleakley…in separate rooms? Cogsworth nodded to himself, eminently satisfied. It was a little more expensive, but the less hanky-panky that went on during this conference, the slighter his chance of suffering any type of mental damage, should he need to knock on doors. But…well, wait. Phil and Terk? In the same room?

Oh no. No no. No. He had as much respect for love as he was legally obliged to have, but there was a limit. If he had to be banging on doors as eight in the morning, he'd rather not do it and stand the risk of seeing anything…unfortunate. He'd have to talk to them about it. 

Pulling out a red pen, Cogsworth split them up. Terk with Pleakley, Phil with Jumba. There, that should fit. Then Mr. Sebastian and M. Lumiere together, and finally, Cogsworth, with Mr. Zazu. He nodded to himself, satisfied. After all the uproar and frustration that was soon to come, a quiet and serious roommate was the very least he deserved.

\--

"Whaddaya mean, we can't bunk together?" shouted Terk. Cogsworth winced.

"Ms. Terk, I'm afraid that simply—"

"I mean, come on—this is the twenty-first century! Men and women are—should be!—equals! If I wanna bunk with Phil, what's stopping me from bunking with Phil! This is a freakin' outrageous sexist determination, Cogsworth!"

"Gal's got a point, Professor," said Phil from around his cigar. Cogsworth barely held back a glare. Yes, well, he clearly knew on which side his bread was buttered, didn't he?

"I am only saying that is a more economical determination," Cogsworth said, using a lesser truth that didn't involve his own ideas about things like 'living in sin.' "Jumba and Pleakley were already rooming separately, and to match you up with them would eliminate the cost of an entire room!"

Terk gave him a suspicious look. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Ms. Terk. That was my determining reason."

"Huh."

Phil looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, chewing his cigar. Unlike some incredibly rude inconsiderate persons, Mr. Phil was kind enough to keep his cancerous narcotics unlit in a school building. Instead, he chewed on them, rather meditatively, like a goat chewing cud. "Well, now, it might not be too bad."

Terk lifted an eyebrow. "Hey, no, I'm not saying it's the end of the world or anything, but maybe it would've been nice to have a little warning before—kerplunk—sorry, request denied." 

"Yeah. But: two minibars."

"…okay, good point."

"We can work out some logistics, I think…" 

 They shared a smile that made Cogsworth nervous. "A-Ah, and, I don't mean to pry, of course, but this is going to be a very, very…family oriented event. Am I clear?"

Terk looked ready to smack him, but Phil just smirked, rising to his feet. "Yeah, we hear ya, Professor. Come on, toots, let's make tracks."

Cogsworth sat back in his seat with a low moan after the door banged close. He wasn't paid enough to do this. No one could be paid enough to do this. 

He pulled out a day calendar and looked at the next two years, marked in tiny charts of numbers. Three years. January 1st, three years from now. First day of retirement. An early one, but oh mercy, how he'd earned it. Buy that little house by the sea and invest in an enormous teapot and dozens of jigsaw puzzles, and clocks. Far away from educational politics and nightmarish interpersonal conflicts and flirtatious, arrogant, effete, over-sexed fools from France.

As if his cue had been struck, Lumiere strode into Cogsworth's office, waving a lit cigarette about. "I rescind my claim!"

"I beg your pardon," Cogsworth muttered, the most polite thing he was currently thinking. 

"I cannot room with that man, not for a moment! Do you know what he considers to be classical music? Do you know?" Lumiere took a steadying drag on his cigarette. "Harry. Belafonte! Harry Belafonte! I have no objection in moderation, I am a reasonable man, but I will not spend three days with my ears ringing with Caribbean music!"

"Perhaps you could strike a bargain?" Cogsworth asked futilely. 

"Non! He will…listen, he is a good creature, perhaps, but it would not do! I put my name there not knowing who would sign on! But he and I…well, it would not do! He is so…serious, Cogsworth. We would quarrel! Headaches for all!"

"I think that you and Mr. Sebastian would get along very well."

"You are wrong. Please, I beg, I implore—what else is there? I am not picky. But…do not make me live with a man that wears dreadlocks! Do you know what goes into their composition? Do you? It is a filthy process! I will be up all night, thinking about it! What else is there, please?"

Oh no. He wasn't falling for this. This was a trick he could see coming a mile away. "Well, I'm sorry, Lumiere, but you are going to have to live with it. Everyone else has been paired up. You'll have to talk to them."

"But…you! Who do you room with? Trade with me."

"Ah, I'm sorry, there." How ham-handed of Lumiere! A blind man would be able to see what he was trying to do here--he usually credited the man with a bit more subtlety. "Mr. Zazu and I have agreed to share a room. I'm afraid you're very likely stuck where you are."

Lumiere gave him a close look, sucking on his cigarette. "Ah, oui? And have you cleared this with M. Zazu? You have already had the conversation?"

"Er. No." Cogsworth winced to himself. He should know better than to ever allow himself to falter around Lumiere. Now that the blood was in the water, the Frenchman would go in for the kill. "We haven't talked about it, of course...it's just assumed. After all, I've already posted the final copy--"

"Parfait! Then M. Zazu and I shall trade rooms. He is a nice man, but so without color--the music might actually do him some good! And I will be freed from the horrors of calypso music. You and I will sleep together."

Oh sweet holy mother of mercy. "S-Sleep together?"

"Yes. Sharing a room. I will sleep well, unless you snore. Do you?"

"...I do not know. No."

"Eh, I will find out either way." Lumiere nodded to himself, satisfied. "It will do--it needs must. Harry Belafonte!" He shuddered delicately. "A near miss."

"N-Now, Lumiere, this is all a little sudden!" Cogsworth blustered. "I've had this worked out, and you can't just blow in here and change it all about to suit you! You'll just have to buy a pair of earplugs, because I'm not about to--" 

Lumiere flicked a wrist, touching his chest with the fingertips of one hand, as the rest of his body leaned slightly to the side, curving in a way Cogsworth was embarrassed to admit was rather distracting. "You do not want to share a room with me? I am hardly the demanding roommate, Professor...I will not keep you up all night..."

Cogsworth blinked a bit, clearing his throat hastily. Blast the man! "It isn't a matter of preference! It's a matter of convenience."  

"What can be more convenient than making sure M. Sebastian and I do not murder each other?" Lumiere put the cigarette in his mouth, reaching for the clipboard with the rooming list on it. "I will even make the change. Nothing simpler! Really, mon cher, I must teach you to become more flexible..."

Oh no--he wasn't going to just make innuendos and get away with this! "A little unbending stability is rather desperately needed around here, I think!"

Lumiere gave him a rather warm look. "Oh, bien sur, I am the first to agree that a man needs to be quite firm of purpose. You will see that I am just that stubborn--I am full of that admirable rigidity." 

...was he? Cogsworth had the odd impression that his brain was beginning to cook gently from the inside out, his hypothalamus working double-time in spite of the best efforts of the cooler parts of his limbic system. "B-Be that as it may..."

Lumiere rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. "Cogsworth! You are a stick in the mud!" He pressed forward, seizing the clipboard and making the changes. "There! Settled. Was that so hard? Honestly. You make fusses out of nothing."

It wasn't nothing. It was something, certainly a something that was going to drive him completely around the bend with frustration. 

But the problem with Lumiere is that the man didn't know when to quit. Either he was oblivious or a sadist. Cogsworth strongly favored the latter formulation. Perhaps he could just doze out in the hotel lounge? 

"Fine," he sighed. Lumiere grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"My dear, do not look so despondent! We will have lots of fun, you and I. You will remember this week for years to come!"

Didn't he just bet.

\--

Saturday was a travel day. Somehow they managed to cram twelve adults into a single van. Granted, it was more like a bus, but it was close quarters nevertheless. Phil had the most experience moving large vehicles, so he and Terk sat in the front, the blue-haired teacher having called shotgun weeks before any transportation arrangements had been made. The thinner teachers were trapped in the back, while Dr. Jookiba sat near the front, with Nurse Pleakley perched on his lap for the sake of space. She spent most of her time turned around, chatting with the others, which forced Dr. Jookiba to shift and try to accommodate her presence on his generous front so that he could read a small novel at the same time.

Cogsworth sat in the third seat from the front, behind Mr. Baloo and Mr. Sebastian. He was squished in beside Mr. Gene, closest to the window. The drama teacher has always had a big personality, and Cogsworth found that it was oppressive in a vehicle this small. Mr. Gene was turned around around in his seat, talking with Mr. Mushu. The two appeared to be drafting something in the way of a list of beautiful women they remembered seeing at the conference two years ago.

And all the while, he was keenly aware of the fact that Lumiere was right behind him. (And, considering those dreams he would never, ever own up to having, wasn't this an unusual case of deja vu?) The other man couldn't have any interest in the fact that they were seated as they were, certainly--they'd been in much closer quarters before Lumiere even began to smirk. He was probably doing something totally innocuous, like reading or listening to those little portable multimedia devices Cogsworth so disliked.

Attempting to be subtle, Cogsworth made a bit of a show of looking at the other occupants of the van, craning his neck a little to see further. He turned his head just enough to linger an instant on each person, as if he were just making a sweep--he'd never turn his head just to see what Lumiere was doing, no no, absurd--and finally twisted to glance into the back seat.

The man was sleeping. Lazy creature! As if he'd felt the intangible weight of Cogsworth's gaze on him, his eyes leisurely opened and he gave the other man a sleepy, impossibly knowing smile.

Cogsworth hurriedly twisted back, his ears burning pink. Damn the man!

It was a long ride.

\--

He hated this conference so, so much. 

Ordinarily it was unremarkable, as far as conferences go. Because it was not specialized for one subject or another, but welcomed all the educators in the state, it was enormous. The content of the lectures and panels was always rather good, and even Cogsworth at his most exacting had to strain to find something wrong with the quality and taste of the hotel attached to the conference center.

Consequently, it had to be the favorite joke of a cruel, merciless higher power that a paltry group of twelve should meet, out of literally thousands of people, every year, without fail, the entire faculty of their worst rival school.

As if it wasn't hard enough keeping his charges--as he was obliged to think of the colleagues he had nominal authority over--in line when they were inclined to split off into pairs on their own. Now they had opponents to square off against, and that couldn't result in anything but utter catastrophe. For a moment, he was selfishly glad that Principal Merlin had abstained from coming and that Mrs. Mim wasn't here. Last time, everyone had been at a peak of discomfort, watching those two flirt outrageously.

Cogsworth himself couldn't understand the appeal of rivalry. Yes, perhaps there was that one time when he was within an ace of jabbing a pair of scissors into the rear end of the aggravating little M. LeFou--and wouldn't Freud have a field day with his relish of the idea of prodding another man's backside--when he'd made some untoward advances against certain members of his little contingent. But that was surely the exception, and a cold look was all they'd ever exchanged since then.

Of course, the instant they had arrived, they looked across the crowded lobby to see the cool, dark, disapproving delegation from Walt Disney Private School. At the center was a tall, aristocratically beautiful, olive-skinned woman with her hair done in an elaborate updo. He supposed that was Principal Maleficent--an imposing educator, not one to be trifled with. At her side was her Vice Principal, Mr. Jafar. He was an Arabian gentleman, tall and thin, with a little squiggly beard and a humorless, snake-like smile. 

Two stood slightly off from these figures of authority, a pair of rather darkly handsome men, standing beside each other without any reservation for personal space. Upon seeing these people, Cogsworth noticed that Mr. Zazu immediately grew tense and that Mr. Baloo rested a hand in an oddly protective, possessive way on Mr. Bagheera's shoulder. The smaller of the men was rather scrawny and very dark, with high cheekbones and an abundance of rather long, dark hair, and a grisly scar over one eye. He seemed to spot their group and smirked their way--Zazu went pale. 

The other, bigger man was wholly unlike his companion: a broad-shouldered, redheaded, strapping fellow with thick, impressive mutton chops and a certain military air. All that was dark about him was the expression of slightly-cruel amusement on his face, but it seemed to be doing its job, for Mr. Bagheera and Mr. Baloo were clearly on edge. The pair from the private school leaned even closer to each other and began to chat, eyes on the public school group, no doubt exchanging remarks about the newcomers. 

Then there was a terribly, skeletally thin woman with laughably two-tone hair smoking like a chimney and chatting with another woman, this one with jet-black, limp hair and too much eye make-up. The second woman fondled a red apple, but never actually lifted it to her mouth to take a bite. Cogsworth frowned, looking at the skeleton lady. Smoking surely wasn't allowed here, and he glanced over his shoulder to see, sure enough, that Lumiere was lighting up, either in strict defiance of the rules or as some sort of silly display of bravado.

The enormous figure of another woman flanked Mr. Jafar. She wore a big purple dress and some rather extreme eye makeup of her own--was this a trend he knew nothing about? She was in the process of applying her lipstick, and popped her red lips with a smack that he could almost hear from across the room. From his side, he heard Mr. Sebastian let out an irate sigh. 

Then there was the loudest man in the group, the one that Cogsworth could hear talking all the way from across the room. He sounded like he was in the middle of a sales pitch, as he grinned his teeth, smoothed his hair, and fairly exuded oily sleeze. He had a cigar in his mouth. Beside him was the broad, intensely masculine form of the private school's gym teacher, M. Gaston. More Frenchmen! Cogsworth felt as if he were surrounded. At least Le Fou wasn't here, this time. Something to be thankful for. 

In LeFou's absence, a teacher Cogsworth had never seen before must have been substituted. She was a frosty-looking woman with an great deal of iron-grey hair perched on her head in an old-fashioned hairdo. Cogsworth would've pegged her as one with whom he could get along, but her no-nonsense expression had something faintly spiteful in it, and he decided not to take an interest. 

The last pair in the group was a large, barrel-chested man with a double chin and a huge frown. He looked about the place as if he were its owner, and was displeased with the condition it had fallen into in his absence. He turned to the other, smaller man--a whip-thin little fellow with an expression of keen willingness to please. He said something and the other man set it down. 

It was the sight of this smaller man that proved to be the ice breaker. "Wiggins!"

Complete shock was on every face as all eyes turned to Nurse Pleakley. The blonde woman had cried the name at the top of her voice, eyes bright with pleasure. "Oh my gosh, is that you?!"

The opposite delegation appeared to be staring with equal surprise, although it was rather subtler. The little man turned and spotted the nurse, and grinned. He hurried away from the large man who had previously controlled his attention, all-but jogging through the room. "Wendy?! Why, what are you doing here, my dear? I haven't seen you in an age! You look lovely--where on earth did you get those shoes?"

The nurse embraced her friend, kicking up a stiletto-adorned foot with delight as they kisses cheeks. "It must be five years, Wiggy! Oh, it's been forever, how are you? Gosh, you're skinny! I didn't know you worked as a teacher--this will be so much fun!"

Cogsworth took the opportunity to glance at Dr. Jookiba. The 'good' doctor was somewhat infamous for his possessiveness of his girlfriend, but at the moment he just looked confused. Cogsworth didn't much blame him. Nothing like this had ever happened before--making friends with the enemy. Sure, there had been a few brief flirtations, and he was certain there were some torrid details he wanted to know nothing about, but actual affection was unheard of.

"Wiggins," barked the heavy-set man. "What the devil are you doing? Come back here this instant!"

"Oops," Wiggins said, looking sheepish. He grinned. "I've got to go, Wendy-dear, I'm on the clock--but let's do dinner tonight!"

"Yes! There's a ton of good places. Let's go dancing after! I never go dancing any more." Dr. Jookiba crossed his arms and glowered at the other man, but the nurse looked completely delighted. Cogsworth thought with annoyance that that was just what they needed: a work romance splintering to pieces in the middle of a conference. How lovely. 

Wiggins gave her a business card and hurried back over to his tribe, waving behind him with a huge, genuinely excited grin. They were like a pair of puppies, the both of them. 

The private school teachers seemed slighted by the unabashed enthusiasm of one of their number, and stormed away in a suave, well-tailored huff. Good riddance.

Cogsworth shepherded everyone through check in. They got their room keys and split off at the elevators, agreeing to meet in the lobby in two hours. Cogsworth breathed a sigh of relief, only to have his blood pressure jump again as the others departed and he found himself alone with his roommate, about to go up to their bedroom. Lumiere winked at him and held the elevator door open, all but becoming him with crooked fingers to enter.

He was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own personal headcanon is that Rasputin from Anastasia keeps resubmitting his resume to Walt Disney Private school, but is rejected every time. His references are great and the interviews always go well, but--alas--he just isn't of 'their type.'


	2. Open Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about Zazu and the past perfect tense, and the cause of his reaction to Scar's presence; a forewarning of things to come. Meanwhile, Cogsworth is carrying on and Pleakley is getting dolled up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Blaze for building the sandbox and letting me make my sandcastles in it.
> 
> As you can see, Scar/Zazu/Mufasa is sort of my new thing. The elevator ride mentioned in this chapter is a reference to colonel-bastard's amazing Scar/Zazu fic. It's a must-read, sensual, exciting, and it ends too soon, leaving your mouth watering for more. Delightful. Get thee hence if you enjoy anything of this sort. http://colonel-bastard.livejournal.com/34514.html#cutid1

Mr. Zazu sat on his bed in the double room he was sharing with the music teacher and tried to take deep breaths without seeming to need them. After a moment, he looked slightly askance at his roommate.

Mr. Sebastian was reclined on his own bed, reading a slim novella. There wasn't a note of Calypso music to be heard. "If you're looking at me because you're afraid I'm going to start a conga line suddenly, you're in for a disappointment," he said in his thickly accented voice, turning a page. "That chain-smoking lunatic only spread that rumor to get closer to Cogsworth."

"I had anticipated as much," Zazu admitted, embarrassed to even begin to think about those men 'getting closer.' "However, I'm relieved to hear you are not the excitable kind."

Sebastian looked up from his book to give Zazu a dry smirk, but it fell from his face almost instantly. "You all right, mon? You look pale."

Zazu started, hopping to his feet. "Car sickness! A little lingering motion sickness--excuse me--I'll be right back!" He hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning on it as he threw the lock.

Blast it all. He should've known better--he'd never been good at keeping his heart off his sleeve. If Sebastian, who hadn't been looking for his feelings, had seen them...there was no hope that he could've fooled Scar.

No wonder he was gossiping so cattily with his friend within moments of their arrival.

Zazu sat on the ledge of the bathtub and tried to collect himself. He'd just have to avoid public men's rooms, and elevators, and anything with fewer than twenty people when the sun began to go down. And he'd have to lock all the doors, all the time. And never answer his mobile phone.

He ran a hand through his black hair, unintentionally ruffling it. How many years had it been?

When he'd been quite a young man, he'd been involved in a student exchange program. He was fascinated by global politics and businesses, and though he'd loved his British politics and industry, he'd thought it was time for something a little more exotic. He'd hoped to go to somewhere like Tokyo or New York City, somewhere he could really sink his teeth into.

They'd sent him to Nairobi.

There, he'd had the misfortune to fall in love.

At first, the entire experience was misery. He had been too hot, too out-of-place, too ignorant, with the slimmest imaginable grasp of Swahili and little to no experience with travel in Africa. His host family was an unusual one--Mr. Ahadi, head of the Ahadi Corporation, was a stern, rather cool figure. He hadn't been pleased to have a scrawny little foreigner in his home, even if it did mean that his eldest son, the bizarrely named 'Scar,' was at last visiting the Western world and busily making valuable contacts at a young age. Zazu had limped about by himself, trying to stay out of the way and educate himself as quietly as he could.

Fortunately, university let out just around then and the younger son came home.

He was, every inch of him, an Adonis. He was broad-shouldered, tall, with a shocking head of scarlet hair and a warm, regal face. Zazu had known that his hosts, though born here for several generations, were not native to Africa, but the rest of the family was generally quite dark. Here had been the exception, a fiery, golden man of bigger proportions and deeper voice. His name was Mufasa, and he was calm, fair, welcoming, proud--a great-souled man, kingly in all respects.

He'd been the one to give Zazu the first genuine greeting he'd had in Africa, and from then on, took the other man under his wing. At first, he'd simply given Zazu access to more information on the Ahadi Corporation and out the finer points of Kenyan and African politics. Zazu had read the history and analysis voraciously during that time, and grew quite content with his lot so far. One morning, Mufasa had pulled him aside and told him that that was not Africa--and that it was high time he saw it.

That same day, despite Zazu's rather extensive protests, they began exploring. Within a week, they'd visited Lake Nakuru, Amboseli National Park, Masai Mara and were making plans to take the long journey down to Mount Kilimanjaro. Zazu had tried to keep at least part of his mind on more serious matters, and his host listened and talked to him him with either genuine interest or sufficiently encouraging inattention that he continued to talk about such things without the slightest feeling of monotony as they went on their excursions. Mufasa had taken him away from the city, firmly steering him out to watch elephants, flamingos, hippopotami, zebras--to sit in the waving Savanna grass and, on one memorable night, to actually watch the enormous, crystal-clear Milky Way galaxy wheeling above their heads.

That was the night Zazu fell rather hopelessly in love with Africa.

Mufasa had his ulterior motives for being Zazu's guide, of course. He loved his family dearly--regretted that his older brother had not been there to participate--and had been glad to be on school holiday, but he had been happy that there was someone new, who was up for a little adventure and would give him a reason to escape Nairobi now and then. Zazu decided not to mention that if he'd had his way, he'd been in an air-conditioned office somewhere. He had really begun to enjoy himself, much more than he'd ever thought he would.

But Mufasa hadn't just been doing this for Zazu's edification, oh no. There were the lions to consider.

Mufasa loved them. They would drive all over the grasslands, looking for prides of golden lions. It nearly scared Zazu to death, the first time they'd seen them, but they laid low and watched them for hours. He had to admit, nothing compared to watching a lioness hunt. There was something horribly fascinating about a pride at meal time, and almost comedically domestic about watching them doze in the shade.

They'd watched the lions more than anything else, and somewhere between that first time Mufasa had to keep him calm while a lioness perched on the hood of the Jeep and the third time they'd sat together in silent contentment, watching the antelope in flight on an ungodly hot day, Zazu had realized that he had fallen in love with another part of Africa, too.

He'd said nothing. What was there to say? Any whisper of such a thing would disturb the harmony of their existence, and he would not allow that to happen. He had been very happy, just like this.

All good things must come to an end, of course. He'd only agreed to be there for six months, and that was about a lifetime too short. Certainly, he had been content to return home, where he could get a decent cup of tea and a proper crumpet without the slightest amount of difficulty, but he'd missed his cool African nights and sweltering Kenyan days. London had become too stifling, too close, in his absence--he'd longed for his broad Savanna sky, his scrubby little trees, his gorgeous explosion of natural life in all of its miraculous forms. Politics, especially current events, managed to keep some of their hold on him, but he had by no means a purely local interest. The news from Nairobi was of principle interest, the Western world secondary.

And of course he'd relished his continued correspondence with his dear friend.

He'd graduated from university and his world began to change. The political climate of England was at last unbearably tedious to him--there was nothing engaging at all about, by that point. He would've gone back to Africa, had begun to make the arrangements many times. But he'd had loans, and no job, and it turned out to be the need for money that guided him. It had flung him far from home, but much further from where he longed to be. He found himself in America, negotiating a life amongst a people he thought of, at first with derision and then with an odd affection, as 'colonials.' Their industry and politics at last proved to be a bit more compelling, but the machinations of Africa held his attention best.

He'd gotten a job in a public school teaching history and world government. It suited him--he liked children, provided they were well-behaved and obedient. So frequently they weren't, however, and he had to keep his wits about him to keep from losing them entirely.

There was nothing for him at home, except a small, neat apartment and about twenty news feeds to keep an eye on. He'd had a few casual relationships, nothing that ever rocked his world, and to be honest, he hadn't been looking for any. His appetite for love had been spoiled early on, and when he couldn't have his choice, he had no intentions of settling for mediocrity. He had always been a man who did well in solitude, and while he had not been happy, exactly, he'd been far from unhappy.

In the absence of anything better to do, he'd started an analysis blog about American and African politics and economy, and to his surprise it rather took off. It had been like having two full-time jobs: besides school, he updated the blog daily, and in great detail. It would've exhausted anyone who hadn't been as obsessed with current events as he was; it exhausted him, and he loved it. But something about his writing style must've been attractive, because he had something like 1,000 unique visitors per day, and even ran a few discreet adverts.

Overall, he had been content.

He had been in America for almost five years before he'd received a rather unusual email. It was from Mufasa. Naturally, they'd continued to correspond, although with time they'd sadly lost some of the warmth that had made their friendship once so close and fortifying. The email had mentioned that Mufasa was in America, in Zazu's own city, as it happened, and requested that Zazu make his way uptown to meet him for a little reunion.

Of course, he'd leapt on the chance. It would be a merest savor of one love and the delicious prospect of meeting with the other, so he found himself almost quivering with excitement as he rode uptown. It was undignified, silly, overly-romantic. But he was almost bubbling over with delight.

The address had been for a tall business complex, which was a little confusing. If the other man had been visiting, surely he would use a hotel? Why meet in an office building? But Zazu had asked at the front desk, and, sure enough, Mr. Mufasa would meet him on the top floor. He'd ridden the escalator up.

The door opened on a corridor, and there, a few feet from the elevator, had stood Mufasa. He'd smiled warmly and extended his hand to shake, placing the other hand on Zazu's back and steering him towards an office.

The man had grown impossibly bigger, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Gone was the rumpled, open-neck shirt and the dark, deep tan. He was in a very well-made suit, one whose broad shoulders and clean, precise lines made him seem even larger, even more powerful and in control than he'd last seemed. Zazu had been glad that he was an old fashioned man and wore a suit every day--if he'd turned up here dressed business-casual, he would've died of shame. He had the distinct impression that here was someone with natural presence, with innate nobility. He almost would've been more comfortable calling him 'sir' than 'Mufasa,' despite their warm friendship.

"You have done very well for yourself," Mufasa had said, as they sat down in a spacious office. Zazu smiled a little nervously. He was a public high school teacher--hopelessly unglamorous. He could've done better for himself, really...but that was the thing about Mufasa's family. They had deep respect for teachers; if one could not lead, teaching was the second-best thing one could do.

He'd smiled a little more confidently. Wouldn't it be lovely if his students thought the same way about their educators? "Thank you. I daresay I could say the same for you--you look like you are about to take on the world."

Mufasa had chuckled. "You're not wrong. As a matter of fact, I plan to conquer America, at least."

"...I beg your pardon?"

"I am the CEO of Ahadi America--I suppose you could call it the Mufasa Corporation." The man had laced his fingers on the desk, and smiled at Zazu's surprised expression. "Is it so shocking, Zazu?"

"A-A bit," Zazu'd said, in a moment of monstrous tactlessness. "That is. I thought you were the youngest son--I hope nothing terrible has happened." Nothing had ever been mentioned, but their conversations were so rarely personal and topical. They talked about outside events, not themselves.

Mufasa had sobered slightly. "No. Unfortunately, Scar is still among us," he'd said with a sigh. Zazu had been surprised--he'd always thought the brothers were close. "He and Father had a falling out...and I have come to take the place that would've been my brother's." He'd shook, evidently determined to be of good cheer. "And so I have found myself at the head of a corporation in an unfamiliar country. As it happens, Scar came here after the break, though I only found that out after the fact...and I was pleased to realize that this was the city I had seen on all of your letters. It has been a long time, Zazu."

"Indeed--" He'd had to bite his tongue. He mustn't call him 'sir.' It would've be inappropriate, offensive. Yet the urge had been so strong. Some men had such a power, others didn't. And it was the nature of men like Zazu, he supposed, to heed it. "It's very good to see you again, Mufasa. I hope you will enjoy America; it has its charms, surely."

"I take you at your word," Mufasa had said smoothly, smiling with a bit of mischief in his eyes. "Perhaps it is your turn to introduce me to this jungle."

He'd grinned a little. "A pleasure! I would enjoy it enormously."

"Good. I'm afraid I'll have to be indelicate here--but I also have a business interest in meeting you today. I want to know if you're willing to be a consultant."

Zazu'd straightened his back. "Excuse me?"

"I need a man who knows the ins and outs of two countries' worth of business practice, policy, and politics. And two highly specific countries at that. You are surely aware that your Morning Report has garnered a great deal of attention--you're something of an authority on the subject of Kenyan and American politics and corporate finance." Mufasa's smile widened then. "I believe your comparison of Wall Street to crocodiles 'snapping up the banks' was one of the more inspired articles."

He'd felt a flush of embarrassment rise on his neck. "Oh, but that's hardly serious--it is a hobby--a fascination. I'm not at all qualified to--"

Once more, and as he had always done, Mufasa'd stepped in to steer Zazu where he wanted him. "You're as qualified as anyone else--frankly, I'm surprised you haven't published a book yet. I would ask you to be a consultant on a purely freelance basis, of course; I don't want to interfere with the blog or your work as an educator." Oh, please, please interfere. Homecoming would be the following week and the absurdities of the hormone-driven lives of teenagers were about to drive him insane. "But I know that you can tease the truth out of any particular situation and tell it bluntly, and I have a desperate need for a man who can and will do that. You would be compensated handsomely, of course--"

Zazu shook his head, holding up down hands. "No, no, certainly, it isn't--please don't think it's an issue of money!" The vulgarity of the idea! "But thank you, Mufasa, I...well...perhaps..."

"You will consider it?" Mufasa had asked, and in that low, persuasive tone he took when he knew he pretty well had another sold on any plan of his. That tone had never steered Zazu wrong, but he still knew enough to know that Mufasa had been manipulating him.

It really oughtn't have been such a joy to be manipulated.

"I will," Zazu'd said. "Quite seriously." A little freelance work couldn't be all bad, after all...and he needed something new to challenge him. He'd been growing listlessly and bored. Mufasa had always been a symbol of something new and difficult, and intensely rewarding.

The other man grinned. "Excellent--and you must come to dinner this week. I'd like to introduce you to Sarabi."

"Sarabi?" Zazu had echoed. He frowned a little, trying to remember. "Did I ever meet her...?"

"Yes, in all likelihood...oh, I'm sorry, Zazu, I can't believe I didn't mention. She is my fiancee. We'll be marrying next summer."

Zazu's heart had twisted and ached, as if breaking, for one long, agonized second, until it settled entirely, his brain enforcing an icy grip of composure upon it. He had always known he had no cause, no cause at all--it was not decent, not acceptable that he should--never any cause, nor any right--because of course, he would never--stop. Stop that clamour, it was offensive, vile. Behave. Behave. His heart then beat steadily, having ceased its thrashings. For an instant he had been out of control, but after an instant, he was fine. As fixed and coolly distant as a star in the firmament, and much the better for it.

Good. Good. That was appropriate, that was right and decent. If Sarabi was the young woman he'd remembered, she was the only proper wife for Mufasa--a beautiful woman, cool and elegant, yet generous, kind-hearted, fair, and of exceedingly good temper. She would match him well, in a way no one else, absolutely no one, ever could. Mufasa was a friend. You did what was right for a friend.

No matter what.

He'd smiled. "I would love to meet her. I am sure she is wonderful."

And she had been. Sarabi was a beautiful woman, in every respect. Tall, curvaceous, she was proportioned perfectly to be a partner to her fiance. She was gracious and an excellent conversationalist, and she welcomed Zazu into their new home with every sign of courtesy and pleasure.

There had been nothing to do--Mufasa was so obviously in love with her, and she with him. He'd never seen his friend like this. It made him happy, and he resented himself for it. He wasn't bad, of course. Just less of everything redeeming about him than they were. Inferior.

It hadn't been that difficult to have a pleasant evening. Midway through their cocktails, he was enjoying himself more than he had in years, ridiculous heartache aside.

Then the final guest had arrived.

The family that produced Mufasa had produced an equally, though oppositely, striking elder son. Zazu had known who he was as soon as he entered the room--the walk was different, the body and coloring and features utterly unlike Mufasa, but there was the same catlike grace and confidence. But where Mufasa was an alpha lion in the full glory of the savanna sunshien, the elder brother was more like a panther in the jungle steam; dark, fluid, smaller and more agile.

The large line that ran across his left eye singled him out as the oft-mentioned Scar. Zazu and Mufasa had rose when he entered the room and the brothers nodded at each other, with no excessive warmth. Scar had smirked at the chilly reception and took in the newcomer.

Zazu had been startled to see such green eyes in such a dark face. Scar was shorter than his brother, and very much thinner, with long legs and black hair. The man had been immaculately turned out, a clearly though tastefully expensive suit tailored to display his form under the pretense of shielding his skin. He made no noise when he walked, and the very excellent Italian shoes on his feet probably had something to do with it. He had been in full dress, suit jacket and tie, while Mufasa lounged in his dress shirt, the first few buttons undone.

Night and day, incarnate as brothers. Scar's mouth had twitched up in a somehow-diabolical smirk and Zazu had realized he'd been staring. He'd cleared his throat and extended his hand. "Good evening. My name is--"

"Zazu," the other man had said, and for some reason Zazu hadn't expected a voice like that. It fit perfectly--smoother, darker than Mufasa's voice was, the accent more pronounced. Mufasa's voice resonated with natural authority; Scar's voice had been naturally seductive, low, almost a purr, a wordless hint of something darkly sensual. Scar'd taken his hand and shook. "My brother's dear friend. I've heard so much. I know Mufasa has been frothing at the mouth at the prospect of having you as a consultant."

Zazu had felt the abrupt need to squirm. He'd released the handshake first, smiling thinly. "Thank you. You have the advantage of me, sir."

"Call me Scar," he had said, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head as he smiled. It had been a strange gesture, ingratiating and intimidating at the same time.

"Something to drink, Scar?" Sarabi had asked, breaking the sudden, unsettling tension in the room. Zazu suddenly liked her even more.

The rest of the evening had been very slightly fraught. Neither brother had been hostile or defensive, but there had been a certain coolness between them that Zazu had been at a loss to account for. The food had been excellent, more credit to Sarabi, and to be honest Zazu hadn't had so pleasant an evening in some time. Scar had been very quiet, but he hadn't been at all interfering or rude, and so the conversation--mostly stories of their old days together, told for Sarabi's benefit--cast a warm glow of nostalgia over the evening.

In days, Zazu had taken the consulting job and began one of the happiest periods of his life. Part of what made it so was that he had had something more closely approaching a family than he'd enjoyed since he'd come to America. Mufasa and Sarabi had invited him to their wedding--a very tasteful, pleasant affair--and to holiday dinners. If there had been some sort of business event, Mufasa would usually send him a short message of invitation, though he never pushed. And Zazu's blog took off even more than it had, with more visitors and traffic, and even a few citations in major newspapers and magazines. He'd thought now and then about resigning his post at the high school, but...well, it filled his other hours and he didn't feel comfortable abandoning teaching entirely. What little responsibility he had for educating the next generation should not be tossed aside lightly. His work, both professional and self-imposed, had been extensive and exhausting, but he had been happy.

He had seen a great deal of Scar that year, between one thing and another. At that time, he still hadn't been entirely sure he liked the elder brother--there had been something faintly unnerving about him that kept Zazu on his guard.

But Scar didn't appear to have any such reservations about Zazu at all. And, loathe as he was to admit it, Zazu'd almost enjoyed it. The other man would tend to sit across for him at meals, and would somehow manage to catch Zazu in a corner to chat. They never talked much, only little pleasantries, but Zazu found that the attention did fluster him enormously...in a pleasant way, however. Perhaps that had been some of the family's charisma. Mr. Ahadi had been able to turn on the charm when he'd wanted, and Mufasa never seemed to turn his particular brand of charisma off.

Finally, Sarabi took him aside. "Zazu," she'd said one evening, as they watched the gala swirl around them as they commemorated the one-year anniversary of the Mufasa Corporation founding. "Is Scar being polite to you?"

Zazu had been surprised. "Eminently so, yes."

Sarabi had put a hand on her generous chest and smiled with evident relief. "Good. He's been so assertive about flirting with you, I wanted to make sure it was not unwelcome."

Zazu'd felt the bottom of his stomach fall out. Surely...surely not! Surely it had been just the other man's way of being friendly! There were little...teasing comments, certainly, but not anything he'd call 'flirting'!

Later, when he found himself hemmed against a wall, Scar nonchalantly keeping him in place, he'd had to admit that, yes, he was probably being flirted with. And the realization must've shown on his face, because Scar grinned broadly to see how he'd ruffled Zazu's feathers.

"It's rather sweetly naive, you know, but it'd not doing you any credit," Scar had murmured, looking down at him over the rim of his glass.

"I don't know what you're talking about." And he didn't. When Zazu didn't know something, he got a bit defensive.

"This..what shall I call it? Adoration you rather evidently feel for my brother. It's getting a bit pitiful, Zazu, to own the truth. It's difficult for me to watch you giving it up so completely, if you know what I mean. Between friends, I think it may be time to move on." Scar'd sipped his drink and smiled. "Find someone...unattached."

What advice. Zazu had hastily extracted himself and said 'good night,' and left with all possible grace.

All he'd managed to accomplish, however, had been essentially posting a sign above his head that said 'open season.' If Scar had been merely prowling before, now he had a set prey in mind, and he actively began to hunt Zazu. The flirtation, which had been mild as long as Zazu took little notice, had suddenly stepped up. There were more 'accidental' touches between the two of them, quiet glances that grew into something like staring contests and always ended with Scar smirking at him, and conversations...little nothings, but with too much tension, too much light, unbearable physical contact...too much everything. There had been an elevator ride that yet lived in infamy in his memory, almost two minutes of complete privacy and isolation and utter torture as Scar played with him.

And he was ashamed to enjoy it.

Horrified at himself, really. Because there had been a persistent something that was just wrong with Scar, something bad and possibly dangerous in the drawl in his voice and the coldness in his eyes when he looked at his brother and his sister-in-law. There had been something deeply and horribly and inexplicably unkind about his aggressive pursuit of Zazu--particularly when Zazu had the potent impression that Scar didn't actually like him very much at all. Fortunately, Zazu had finally decided that he didn't like Scar, either, certainly not with even the smallest fraction of the yes, fine, adoration he felt for Mufasa. He was just...a bit entranced by him, like a bird before a snake. He couldn't look away--but it was involuntary. An enchantment in the purest form of the idea.

So he'd distanced himself as best he could. He had dinners with Mufasa and the now-heavily-pregnant Sarabi at other times, joining them for only a few holidays. He avoided business affairs as much as he could, keeping up the consulting work and having a pleasant, warm relationship with the young family.

It had been nearly six months since the last time Scar had made his heart hammer too hard. And when they saw each other, and Zazu instinctively tensed, Scar's eyes had sharpened in analysis, consideration, and finally in pleased anticipation. The game was afoot, it was clear--and Zazu had to keep all his wits about him to keep this whole debacle from coming to a head he would most surely regret, one way or the other.

He masked the extended reflection in the bathroom by turning on the shower. Surely a quick bird bath would clear his mind and fortify his defenses. After all, they were going out to dinner tonight as a group, and who knew what could happen?

\--

Sebastian watched his temporary room mate hurry away and shook his head. He didn't even want to know.

\--

Lumiere held the door open for him, smiling at him and making a little 'after you' head gesture. Cogsworth tightened his grip on his suitcase and walked stiffly inside. He didn't put anything past the man, of course--their entire work relationship was a game to him. He just couldn't bear the idea of Cogsworth being in control, could he? So he'd be here to undermine Cogsworth's authority even in their off hours.

Cogsworth put the suitcase on one of the beds, the one closest to the door. He'd not let Lumiere block the door. The man was disturbing that way, you never quite knew what he was thinking.

The door closed and Cogsworth heard a deep, satisfied sigh come from the other man. His shoulders tensed slightly, and he set about collecting a fresh shirt to change into in the bathroom. Dinner would be soon, and he'd prefer to get out of the clothes he'd travelled in.

"A long day, eh, mon ami?" asked Lumiere. "For a little while, I thought it would never end."

"You slept through most of it," Cogsworth pointed out.

"And yet it was too long by half! I shall have to consult my little black book of restaurants--I did not see anything that looked half tolerable on the drive in the city." Lumiere sat on the other bed, casually unwinding the scarf around his neck. Cogsworth couldn't help but glance up as he performed this office, exposing a long, pale throat and revealing better the slim line of his shoulders.

He stared into the depths of his suitcase.

Lumiere drew the aforementioned notebook out of the small valise he'd brought with him and began to consult it. "I did not like the looks of that dour-looking menagerie in the lobby, by the by," he fished out a fresh cigarette and lit it one-handed, unconcerned with the little 'No Smoking, Please' plaque on the desk. He breathes out the smoke in a rather luxurious gesture. "They look like murderers, all--do you suppose we have stumbled into a den of thieves?"

"Don't be absurd. They're teachers, Lumiere."

"It is a private school, my dear Cogsworth...you never know who they'll hire."

"What nonsense." He made his selection and pulled out a suitable tie. "Excuse me."

"Excuse you? Whatever for? You needn't hurry off behind a closed door for my sake." Lumiere gave him such a smirk. "I have no qualms about seeing you undressed, mon cher..."

Cogsworth all-but ran into the bathroom, and he could still hear Lumiere's laughter as he locked the door. Blast the man!

\--

"Do not know why you cannot do this in own room," Jumba grumbled, glancing over the newspaper at Pleakley.

The nurse brushed on a bit more mascara and smiled in the mirror. He sat down and began making careful adjustments to his favorite blond wig. "Well, I would, only Terk grabbed Phil by the belt and dragged him into my room, and I didn't want to be there when what was going to happen happened." After a few moments' thought, he began to twist old-fashioned victory rolls in it.

Jumba scowled. "Everyone will be wondering why my girlfriend has run off with twiggy little stick."

Pleakley snickered. "Oh, no they won't. They'll know Wiggins and I are just friends--there's no chance anyone's going to think he'd stealing me away from you." He shimmied a little in front of the mirror, as he adjusted his red sequined minidress.

Jumba glared over the paper. "You are going out dressed like that?" 

Pleakley paused, looking in the mirror with a worried expression. "I was. What do you think? Too trampy?" He turned towards Jumba and took a few steps away from the vanity. He balanced perfectly on his red patent leather stilettos, all sashaying hips and long, long legs. "I was thinking, you know, we're young and off in a different city, and I don't usually wear something that needs my falsies, so I thought a little dressing up would be fun."

He didn't want Pleakley wandering around in something like that. At the very least, unscrupulous types would take it as a blatant invitation. Pleakley looked like a full-course meal just begging to be eaten--but no one should get the idea that he was offering taste-tests. "Is too much. Everyone will think you are hoochie-coochie girl."

Pleakley smiled a little at that, putting a hand on his hip. "Hoochie-coochie, huh?" He turned around again, glancing back in the mirror and fluffing his wig a little. His rear looked much too pert in in that outfit. Any red-blooded male with a single active hormone was going to be staring. Jumba lived with this man and had seen him at his least glamourous, and he was still staring. He shook his head and forced his eyes upward.

Pleakley walked back over to the mirror and checked his eye makeup one more time. He stuck a red flower in his hair, painted a ruby-colored lipstick over his lips, and grinned at his reflection, striking a saucy pose. "Well, that'll be fine. If I get too many stares, I'll just wear Wiggins' jacket."

He grabbed his purse and hurried for the door. "I'd better go--I'm meeting him in the lobby. I'll probably come back here to sleep. I bet Terk and Phil are going to be a while." He turned to glance over his shoulder, blowing Jumba a kiss. "Have fun! Tell everyone I'll catch them tomorrow. Don't wait up!"

The door slammed behind him and Jumba grumbled to himself, settling further into his chair. Great. Earlier that day, he thought he had discerned a diminutive form that reminded him intensely of Jacques Von Hamsterveil, and if he ever had to meet that low, dirty little traitor again, he'd rather do it with a gorgeous woman in a tiny red dress dripping off his arm. And now some skinny little nobody had stolen Pleakley off.

Well. If Wiggins put a single hair of that wig out of place, Jumba was going to break every bone in his body. And then set them all and let him heal, so he could break them again.

No one stole Jumba Jookiba's girlfriend.

Even if that girlfriend was a boyfriend.

And wasn't really his boyfriend.

Whatever. He'd break bones first and ask questions later.


	3. Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth has a new strategy. Bagheera has a new headache. Pleakley has an old friend.

It hadn’t been easy, but Cogsworth had managed to discreetly escape from the shared room. Lumiere hadn’t done anything yet, but that hardly meant he wasn’t planning something. He hurried down to the lobby an hour before the others would meet there. He bought an overpriced cup of coffee from the little kiosk outside and sank, with a sigh of relief, into a club chair. 

He’d left during Lumiere’s turn to freshen up, and to be honest he felt a bit bad for just disappearing like that. Perhaps Cogsworth was being a little rough on the man. After all, in a way, Lumiere was his friend. When he wasn’t using Cogsworth as some sort of bullseye to practice pitching flamboyant woo, he was really rather charming and funny and generally enjoyable company. Every now and then, when they had a common goal, Cogsworth had noticed that he and Lumiere meshed very well. When Lumiere put his rather considerable nose to the grindstone, there was little he couldn’t accomplish, and accomplish well. Of course, now and then Lumiere would just ignore the rules entirely and follow his own fancy, but when it didn’t end in catastrophe, Cogsworth was always a little surprised by how well it turned out.

If only he weren’t such a flirt! It was hard to remember all that was redeeming about a person when they were brazenly and artfully displaying themselves on your desk. Cogsworth didn’t like to be teased, and that was all it was--teasing. He didn’t like how much it flustered him, how seriously he took it. If he could just shrug it off, the way he knew he should, there would be no problem, for then Lumiere would simply find more entertaining prey. 

It was his reactions that amused Lumiere and, however well-intentioned they might be, all of the others, who surely found it incredibly comical.

Yes, he knew that Lumiere was very handsome, and yes, he knew that he wasn’t. Yes, he knew the other man was out of his league, and that that was what made it all so absurd and entertaining. Yes, he knew he was strict and uptight and that he liked things just so, that he was occasionally obnoxious and disliked, and he certainly knew better than anyone else that Lumiere was the only person in years to show him any interest, even in teasing. But he didn’t want the interest, blast it! He wanted...he wanted to...

He gently rubbed his fingertips against his eye. Oh, it wasn’t even worth considering that any more. He wanted all sorts of things, some of them not worth the wanting. He wanted a raise. He wanted to retire. He wanted to be certain he would honestly be happy in the solitude that would come of his post-career plans. 

He wanted a dozen other things it was utterly wrong to want. He blamed Lumiere for plenty of them, but he knew that most of the wanting was his own fault, the fault of that last insidious, vulgar part of him that he hadn’t been able to structure and organize into submission.

He drank his coffee slowly. Oh, to hell with it all. Perhaps it was finally time to just give it up. It was the summer--there was no way the students could be corrupted--and unless there was a real fuss brewing, his other coworkers hardly ever paid him any attention. There was no face to lose in front of them. Maybe it was time to stop protesting when Lumiere made an overture. Just...well, not own up to the fact that he sometimes enjoyed the man’s attention, but not be so set on pretending it was unbearable. If he was lucky, Lumiere would get bored.

Or if he wasn’t lucky--or, that wretched little part of him suggested, if he was very, very lucky indeed--Lumiere would find it even more interesting and press him even harder. 

And if that happened, well, he had at least two months to regroup.

He sighed a little. He supposed it was worth the shot.

\--

Eight of their initial eleven came down the stairs at the appointed time. Cogsworth wasn’t surprised to see that Mr. Phil and Miss Terk had flagrantly disregarded his rooming arrangements--both were absent and he knew they must be together. He thought he was erring on the side of safety, giving everyone two hours. 

Good God. The young did have stamina.

Dr. Jookiba’s nose had been severely put out of joint by Nurse Pleakley’s absence. “Is meeting old friend,” he said by way of explanation, crossing his arms over his big chest. “Is very sorry to be skipping out.”

Right. Didn’t he just bet. Well, if Nurse Pleakley was the first to establish good connections with Walt Disney Private School, it might not be such a bad thing after all. Perhaps it was time to put these petty little differences aside and embrace their mutual goal--educating the youth.

Except for Le Fou. Cogsworth had good reasons to remain aside from that obnoxious little pork pie.

“Eh bien,” said Lumiere. “We will attempt to avoid the downtown area--you may find one or two more or less decent places, but on a conference weekend you will never find a table big enough for all of us.” He pulled out his little black book once more, running a finger down one page. “There is a restaurant uptown that I believe I have been to before; it should produce a very tolerable French supper. As I recall, the atmosphere is the best part.”

He looked over at Cogsworth, waggling his eyebrows significantly. “There will be music, romantic candlelight...”

Cogsworth screwed his courage to the sticking point. Every particle of common sense told him to get away, to move out of this man’s intoxicating aura. He hoped to heaven that he wasn’t blushing.

“It is reasonably priced, I hope?” he asked, pleased that he hadn’t needed to clear his throat to speak. And that he didn’t grin when Lumiere’s expression blatantly revealed surprised confusion. Obviously he had been expecting fluster.

“ _...oui, naturellement._ ” Lumiere regained his footing. “And I may be able to suggest a few dishes that would be particularly succulent.”

“Hm. We’ll see. I’ve been burned by your menu choice before,” Cogsworth said simply. He turned to the others. “I hope this is acceptable? Mr. Gene, do you suppose you could do us the favor of driving?”

\--

Dinner, as far as Bagheera was concerned, was rather dull. 

Perhaps it would’ve been entertaining, had he been in the right frame of mind to appreciate the new twists in Cogsworth and Lumiere’s little vaudeville act. Somehow Cogsworth had grown a spine within the past two hours, and wasn’t allowing himself to be made flustered by the overly-flirtatious Home Economics teacher. Bagheera had to say he was pleased--watching Cogsworth quail under the force of Lumiere’s flirting had long grown rather sad. As if it weren’t patently obvious to everyone that the Mathematics teacher was more that fond of his friend and that friend’s ludicrous attentions.

Of course, the show lost its charms rather quickly. He had other things on his mind.

“How’s it hangin’, Baghee?” Baloo asked. Bagheera almost had to smile at the sight of the man, as he took great pains to appear civilized while wielding cutlery. Bagheera had put on a turtleneck and a jacket, and had attempted to get Baloo to dress a bit more finely. But he’d been stubborn, insisting that wherever they went surely would not demand more than a hoody and a nice t-shirt.

They obviously had different opinions on what constituted ‘nice.’

“I’m well,” he said, choosing not to employ the colloquialism. “This is a lovely restaurant.”

It really was. Music and romantic candlelight were indeed present, and the meals that had been laid before them looked quite sumptuous. It was just the sort of place he’d like to take Baloo on their second anniversary next month.

He couldn’t say such a thing here. No one yet knew they were together.

Somehow they’d just never really discussed it. They’d realized they were in love with each other, had the entirely-too-much sex that came with a new relationship, and had settled very comfortably into their new routine. Nearly two very happy years had passed that way, with the usual arguments and disagreements and the quite novel, quite pleasant new methods of ‘agreeing to disagree.’

Nothing was missing. 

Or nothing had been missing, until Baloo had received a letter from his mother. It turns out that a young boy had been left without a family in a recent storm. Mrs. Sangita had recognized him as the Wolfs’ adopted son, Mowgli. They’d taken the child in temporarily, but they didn’t think they could keep him forever.

Would Baloo mind talking to his friend about their sponsoring the boy?

Nestled amidst some rather unsettling sentences about Baloo finding a nice girl, there had been a picture of the child. Bagheera only had to look once at the small, brown face and the big, dark eyes before he knew he’d do whatever he could to help the boy. He had a sweet, mischievous smile.

“Do you think about having children much?” Baloo’d asked, as they sat on the sofa later that evening. 

“I? No. I never really thought about having a family.”

“And now?”

“Are you thinking about the child back home? I never pegged you for a family man.”

“We can’t just leave him there, Baghee. Poor li’l guy.”

“Hold on a moment, I never said we were going to leave him there. I would like to help him. I’m just not sure how.” He’d smiled faintly as Baloo’s arm had tightened around his waist. “I’m sure it will just be a matter of getting in touch with someone who oversees the sponsoring program.”

“Sponsoring? I dunno, Baghee...I’d hate to see him getting over here just to get dragged through a bunch of foster homes...”

Bagheera’d had a feeling that something like this was coming. “Baloo. Honestly. You can’t be suggesting--”

“Why not? How about we see about adopting the little guy?”

Bagheera’d said ‘No.’

He said ‘No’ the next day, and the day after that, and every day for a week, while he got in touch with the proper agencies. 

It was being set up now. In a month, little Mowgli would be in America, and of late, Bagheera’s ‘No’s had begun to falter. 

Baloo had picked up on it immediately and had begun to press harder. 

“You still thinking about it?” Baloo asked him now, quietly. Bagheera nodded. ‘No’s had become ‘well, let me think about it’s. Baloo knew he was close to winning.

Part of the problem was that Bagheera didn’t want to raise the child with his boyfriend. Oh, he wanted to raise Mowgli with Baloo, if he were to raise Mowgli at all. Baloo was perfect for fatherhood--but he needed someone there to keep him in check, lest he over indulge the child. They could be very good parents, together.

The problem was that he wanted them to be completely ‘together.’ He didn’t need a big, impressive wedding--just a pair of signatures on a piece of paper to bind their lives together. He’d wanted something like that for a little while, even before Mowgli ever entered the picture. 

If Mowgli was adopted by them, he didn’t want to raise the child with his boyfriend. He wanted to raise Mowgli with his husband.

He didn’t say a word, of course, and if it came down to it and it looked like it would be best for Mowgli, one or the other of them would adopt him and they would raise him together. Either he or Baloo would be the legal guardian. And if they ever did decide to tie the knot, it wouldn’t be too hard for them to adjust the matter into a joint adoption--he hoped. It wasn’t as if there was a time restraint on such a thing. And yet, and yet...still he wanted it, even with such rationalizing.

Baloo had never said a thing about this being permanent. Already it outstripped all of Bagheera’s relationships for longevity. It was a pretty permanent situation, being willing to adopt a child, but--Bagheera didn’t want to think the worse of Baloo in this case, but it had to be considered--Baloo didn’t always think things out too far ahead.

Besides, if they married, they would have to break the news to a lot of people, not the least of all Baloo’s family. How would that go? And how would Mowgli react to having two fathers? How would their friends and colleagues take it? Lumiere always had a knowing look about him, but the others...not that it would be a problem, per se, but he worried.

“It’s just gonna be a month,” Baloo said, pulling Bagheera out of his thoughts. “I gotta say I’m pretty excited, babe.”

‘Babe.’ A little name that had become so second nature that it was hardly something they noticed. Bagheera remembered after a moment that they were in public, and stiffened.

“I am also anticipating his arrival,” Bagheera said carefully. “I...I am not in objection to adopting him, Baloo, but there are so many things we will need to do first--”   
“Really?” Baloo said, far too loudly. “Great! Baghee, that’s--” Bagheera winced and he lowered his voice a bit. “Really, babe? Aw, yer not gonna regret this, Baghee, I swear! It’s gonna be great!”

“I want to meet the child, first,” Bagheera said calmly. “I want to be sure we can take care of him. And I want to see how he reacts to the idea of...well...having two fathers.”

Baloo grinned. “Sure thing, babe. I hear ya. This is gonna be fabulous, Bagheera, ya don’t even know...”

Bagheera smiled weakly. Well, he certainly hoped Baloo was right.

\--

Jumba went up to his room after dinner with the distinct impression that Pleakley shouldn’t have gone anywhere. The meal had been in a small French restaurant, a frilly, low-lit sort of place that would’ve delighted the nurse. He would’ve thought it romantic, certainly. All Jumba knew was that everyone was either faintly on edge from seeing their rival school or wrapped up in their own little interpersonal conundrums. 

It had been awkward, and Pleakley had been needed. Jumba was terrible at small talk. Pleakley would’ve dispersed the awkwardness with his cheerful, chattery inclusion, and it would’ve made the air more breathable for everyone.

He sat up and read, determined not to miss Pleakley’s return. In his mind, he’d given the other man a curfew. If Pleakley wasn’t back by one AM, he was going to go out, and find him, and grind the little man he was with to a fine powder.

Because who knew what could happen to Pleakley, dressed up like that in a strange city without someone to keep an eye on him? Not that Jumba wanted the job or that he was _worried_ about Pleakley. No! But he knew that Pleakley couldn’t possibly defend himself against anything untoward, and Jumba would then be out a friend and half his rent.

It was the apartment he needed, really, not...

He wasn’t going to finish that thought. It was so patently untrue that it made him grumble to himself, wondering when he’d gone so soft. 

Pleakley slipped halfway through the door around twelve forty-five, just as Jumba had been tying his shoes in anticipation of going out and raising some hell. The room had been fairly dark, and Pleakley might’ve thought he was asleep. He didn’t come all the way in, still having a conversation with someone outside.

Pleakley was giggling--likely drunk. Jumba sat on the bed, arms crossed, glowering at the slender, sparkly figure draped on the door frame, silhouetted by the hallway light. 

“Nooo,” he cooed, “no, of course not! What would everyone think? I could never...”

Murmuring. Then, Pleakley gasped and slapped a hand out, lightly striking someone’s chest as he made a soft, high noise. “Oh! Nooo, you’re crazy! I could never, you naughty man, what type of girl do you think I am!” 

More giggling. It sounded like the other person was laughing to. He listened a little more carefully. 

“...can you blame me? You look so pretty tonight!”

Pleakley simpered, freeing one hand from the door to fluff his wig. “Well, thank you, but you’re still not my type...and I know for a fact I’m not yours. But maybe later. We can spend the night together--just like old times, huh?”

“I’d like that, dear.”

“Good. You’d better get back to yours, Wiggy...but here, let’s make that mean old brute wonder a little, shall we?” Pleakley leaned out of view, and the door closed a bit more as he slipped away from the room. There was a long, exaggerated noise--a flamboyant kiss.

And yet more mutual giggling. Would the giggling never end! That stupid restaurant had given him heartburn and the giggling was exacerbating it. 

“There you go--”

“Oh, Wendy-dear, have mercy! I can’t go back to him with lipstick on my collar!”

“Wiggy, I think you could leave bite marks on my neck and mine wouldn’t notice...are you sure yours would?” A pause. “Oh, oh my God, I’m so mean, I’m sorry, Wiggy, I didn’t mean--that was such a stupid thing to say, I’m sorry--”

“It’s all right, Wendy...I know you’re right. And after all, why not make him wonder a bit? I’ll tell you if he notices it. Are we on for luncheon tomorrow?”

“Absolutely...if I can get my foot out of my mouth, I mean.”

Light, delicate laughter. “Think nothing of it, my dear--I should remember how aggressive you get when you get a little liquor in you. Yours is in for a surprise...”

“Oh, he’s asleep...and I am not aggressive, you meanie-head! I’m just happy.” Another, lighter kissing noise. Damn it. Stop kissing. “G’night, Wiggy. Thanks. This was fun.”

“Thank you, Wendy-dear. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye!” 

At last Pleakley came in, and Jumba frowned even more deeply. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, and popped his shoes off in front of the vanity. He looked like he’d been dancing or doing something vigorous--his wig was messy, the flower accessory was gone, his immaculately-painted mouth was slightly smudged. He also look radiantly happy. Pleakley smiled brightly in the mirror across from the bed and stretched, arms raised to the ceiling, before he finally glanced deeper into the room’s reflection and jumped a mile. He spun around. “Jumba! Jeez, you scared me! What are you doing still awake?”

“Waiting for little one to come home,” Jumba said gruffly. “Took long enough.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not even one! Maybe a little late.” He propped one foot up on the vanity seat, unrolling his stockings. “Did you have fun?”

“No. Was boring dinner.”

“Aw, I’m sorry...do you want to hear about my evening?”

“Nyet.” He wanted nothing to do with Pleakley’s ‘date.’ He’d heard enough. “Little man is going to be new boyfriend?”

“What? Wiggins? As my boyfriend?” Pleakley laughed brightly. He really had to be drunk. “Nooo! Never! No way! We’re just good friends!”

“Going to be sleeping with him later in week.”

“Yeah, as a sleep-over! C’mon, like you don’t have old friends. And shame on you, listening in doorways!” Pleakley shook his head. “I’m going to take a shower, okay? You go ahead and go to sleep, now that I’m all home safe and sound.” Pleakley came over and pinched his cheek gently--Jumba batted his hand away. “You were worried about me, weren’t you? How sweet is that! How could I leave such a caring fake-boyfriend?”

With a teasing grin, Pleakley disappeared into the bathroom. 

“Little friend is getting too big in head!” he called after him. Jumba snorted. Boyfriend? Psh. Just a concerned friend. Pleakley didn’t know what he could get himself into. 

He changed into his night clothes and laid down in bed. Don’t think about it. It’s ridiculous. Ridiculous. He was just a little out of sorts because he was used to Pleakley’s attention and affection being trained on him, was all. Not because he wanted it all. Just because he was used to it. 

He turned off the light and laid back in the dark, letting his eyes make little colors and swirls in the ceiling. The shower cut off, the door opened, and he heard Pleakley stumbling around in the dark. Soon there was the sound of a body hitting a mattress, and a long, satisfied ‘mmm.’ 

Jumba frowned and turned onto his side to sleep. This was nonsense. He was just overtired. He’d be fine in the morning.

\--

Cogsworth had to smile to himself as he brushed his teeth. It looked like this little idea of his was actually working! 

Once he’d started to ignore or play off Lumiere’s advances, two rather miraculous things had happened--first, it had become easier to reply with something that wasn’t merely a stammer or an embarrassed flush. 

And second, Lumiere had backed off. By the time dessert had been served, Lumiere was almost quiet, looking quite thoughtful and introspective--almost confused.

Cogsworth considered it an unqualified victory. It was almost fun, to watch Lumiere’s bewilderment. That was surely unkind, but he deserved a little bit of payback for what was surely years now of teasing. Sure, he liked the attention, now and then, but that didn’t mean he always wanted it.

He was positive that, by morning, Lumiere would have regrouped and would make further assays. Cogsworth would just need to keep his guard up and parry the best he could. At least he’d made some ground today.

He nodded to himself in the bathroom mirror, ready to confidently and smoothly go to bed.

That didn’t work out too well. In his absence, his roommate had played his trump card.

Lumiere--and shouldn’t he have guessed it--was apparently something of an exhibitionist. He was lounging on his bed, with grace just nonchalant enough to be unconscious, in a pair of boxer shorts. Almost the entirety of the man was on display--long, slender legs and arms, the soft, low belly, the barely-visibly suggestion of ribs, the slender, almost delicate neck and shoulders. Wiry muscles and finely-wrought bones. All of him, so slim and pale and so very handsome, lit by the low, almost romantic glow of the dim yellow hotel lamp.

He was smoking and reading a small book--‘Maurice,‘ of course! Had he no shame?

Cogsworth suddenly felt unbearably frumpy, in his long-sleeve button-up pajamas.

Lumiere looked up at him and smiled around the cigarette, one of those long hands coming up to take it out of his mouth. “ _Bonne nuit,_ ” he said in a low tone, breathing out the smoke with the words.

“Y-Yes, same to you,” Cogsworth said, using every bit of will-power to go slowly and not rush beneath the obscuring covers of his bed. He’d stammered. Drat! And there was no way Lumiere hadn’t caught him staring. 

But at least he didn’t hear the other man laughing now. Cogsworth reached out and flicked off his own light, turning over onto his side away from Lumiere.

He missed the other man’s delighted smirk and the way he ran a fascinated gaze up and down Cogsworth’s figure as he laid in his bed, but he knew that all he’d managed to accomplish was to indicate to Lumiere that the game was on.

He didn’t fall asleep for a while.


	4. Breakfast Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scar and Shere Khan have a tete-a-tete. Lumiere contemplates the vagaries. Pleakley is clueless and Jumba is seeing a need of getting his backside in gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while it looked like all this chapter would be was twenty pages of Scar and Shere Khan being catty bitches. Actually, I still might write that.
> 
> But this story is not that story.

“...all I am saying is that Machiavelli isn’t the point.  Ah, thank you,” Scar said, leaning over with a black cigarette to accept Shere Khan’s proffered light.  It was difficult for Scar to do anything that was not an affectation--years and years of lying and scheming had ingrained falsehood until it was a more natural habit that anything else.  

The best lies were made of little details.  Black cigarettes were just a tiny portion of the artfully produced image of the entire man.

Shere Khan rolled his eyes and lit his cigar, sinking back against a bedsheets with a satisfied sigh.  A shag was only a shag, but a good cigar was a _smoke_.  Not that a fumble with Scar was ever unpleasant, to be honest.  It was quite nice to have a, oh, there were dozens of vulgar ways to put it, but...‘an unattached friend whose tastes ran similar to his own.’  Not that attachment would’ve mattered to either of them.

They’d just eviscerated each other all over Shere Khan’s bed and were enjoying a post-coital chat. 

Shere Khan rolled the cigar in his fingers.  “Really?  You shock me.  I had thought that anything Machiavelli was usually the point, for you.”

“Machiavelli is frequently the point, but I think this is a case for Hobbes.  ‘Force and fraud are the two cardinal virtues’ and all that.”

“I believe you left something out, my dear.”  One thing that was truly remarkable about these men was the way they spoke.  Anyone in the world could talk, but here were a pair of men that really spoke.  They always said precisely what they wanted to say, the way they meant to say it, and what they wanted to say was usually a series of words with many possible meanings and only one real idea.  And fortunately for them, each had found another that spoke the way they did; consequently, it was always the case that the latter that knew what the former was really saying.  

Take ‘my dear,’ for instance.  Both men used it semi-frequently, either as an adjective or a noun, to refer to the other.  A small change in tone or inflection, in gaze or expression, in distance or proximity, in intimacy or argument, in conversation together or with another, or any combination of those, would yield a different meaning.  ‘My dear’ could, separately or all at once, mean ‘incredible fathead,’ ‘loathsome mongrel,’ ‘wretched fool,’ ‘degenerate moron,’ ‘contemptible idiot,’ ‘low imbecile,’ ‘complete, worthless, gutter-trash son of a bitch’, and even ‘the one whose company I most frequently solicit and occasionally enjoy.’

Shere Khan said ‘my dear’ and meant ‘you ridiculous creature, God knows why I put up with you.’  Scar knew it immediately and gave him a little pursed-lip smile.  For two men who spoke constantly in code, it was somewhat surprising to suddenly find the codebreaker.  Talking to each other was far and away the closest thing they came to having a genuine conversation with anyone.

“Oh, you know me,” Scar said with a smirk.  “I hear what I want to hear.”

“But enough name-dropping.  Tell me what brought this on.”

Scar gave him a smutty look.  “A man has needs, Shere Khan, and you are useful when it comes to relieving them.”

“One does aim to please,” Shere Khan murmured.  “But I am not an idiot.  Pray tell me the truth.”  The words ‘before I make you’ or perhaps ‘before I tear your throat out for evading the question’ longed to chase the tail of the sentence.  But he was too well-mannered to let such a vile thing out.  

“I’m surprised, Shere Khan.  Prior experience had taught me to believe that you were not in objection to a little tussle now and then.  I am shocked to have been led so astray.  Surely you’re not growing modest on me.”

Shere Khan sneered.  “Hilarious.  Regrettably, however, I almost fancy that you were a bit distracted when you oh-so subtly threw yourself at me.  Do you mean to say that it had nothing to do with that...cute little creature that got so very excited when you two spotted each other?”

Scar rolled his eyes.  “Let me be the first to assure you that I can think of precious few things that have anything to do with _that_ unfortunate person.  I just needed an edge taken off.”

“Really?  Not that I don’t simply adore your attention, dear boy, but I cannot help but feel that you were somewhat...perfunctory.”

“Perhaps I ought to find a different companion, if you are so very certain of that,” Scar said, the ghost of a growl in his tone.  “One who is not so exacting when it comes to a purely physical relationship.  Or are you just craving a bit of a cuddle in the afterglow?”

“Perish the thought,” Shere Khan said, curling his lip a bit at the mere idea.  “And simply tell me about that little strip of nothing.”

“You are obsessed,” Scar sighed.  “He is my brother’s little pet.”

“Ah, the unmentionable Mufasa,” Shere Khan murmured, mentioning him.

Scar rolled his eyes, unimpressed.  “He’s utterly in love with the man, and oh how he broadcasts it.  A rather contemptible little scrub, but amusing enough when wound up.”

“Wound up?  Then he was not anticipating you--he was recalling you...”

“Oh, aren’t you clever?  Yes, we’ve...played a bit before.  I will say this for him--it’s rather precious to watch him absolutely _ache_.  He’s rather pretty when being tortured.”

“You have a remarkable effect.  He certainly looked as if his tail had been twisted when he saw you.”

“No more twisted than that prime bit of rear you allowed to leave you for a mental incompetent,” Scar pointed out.  “They look so incredibly happy together.  I thought I was nearly going to be ill.”

“There are other fish in the sea,” Shere Khan said philosophically, rolling the cigar again.  He wasn’t particularly pleased to see an ex-lover so well-ensconced in the arms of another.  Bagheera had been an entertaining diversion and nothing more, but it didn’t change the fact that Shere Khan liked to hold onto what he’d once held, worthy or not.  “So what are you going to do about him?  You didn’t just run to my arms for comfort, I daresay.”

“And what have your arms got to do with anything?”

“I’m your grindstone.  I keep you sharp.”

“Why should I need to be sharp?  I have no interest in doing anything about him.”

“Please, my friend.  It would be quite the feather in your cap, a summer dalliance that prods your brother in the eye.  And do let’s be honest--how hard would it be?  He looks quite desperate.  No one really wants a challenge in this weather any way.  Nothing wrong with a bit of low-hanging fruit in this heat.”

“Hm.  I shall consider it,” Scar said, smoking thoughtfully.

Shere Khan nodded.  There.  That would entertain the both of them for a few days.  Watching Scar try his luck was always amusing.

\--

Lumiere was homesick for his espresso machine, but he did the best with what he had.  The hotel breakfast buffet was likely to be sub-par, which was a shame because he enjoyed a good buffet.  A good buffet was one of the greatest joys a man could know.  But this was a big hotel, and a big conference center, and if they had anything to serve that was not manufactured by Boit he would be very surprised. He took the first delicate sips of the tiny drink and began to contemplate his situation.

It was not precarious, but it was slightly...unusual.  Cogsworth always had been.

‘You are saving your heart for Pygmalion,’ Babette had told him years ago, when their bright, brief fire had been on its way to embers.  ‘You cannot bring yourself to love anything imperfect.  That is how you will burn me.’

‘Fortunately, ma cherie, you are perfect,’ Lumiere’d replied, taking her into his arms.  He had loved Babette very well indeed.  She had suited him, all luscious curves and soft, sweet voice--deep, dark eyes and too much love for one person.  Or at least a disinclination to settle for a person she thought did not love her. 

He had thought to marry her once.  Now, when the memory of the empty closets and her letter on the bedside table was little more than a faint bittersweetness at the back of his mouth, he was glad he had not.  There had been too much undone then--still so much undone now.

But he did know Babette was wrong.  After all, it did not get much more imperfect than Cogsworth.

He’d consulted with his family--a mother and four sisters, all just as charming as the only son--and declared that he was going to try something new to get his mind off of his romance’s late implosion.  He had been somewhat wrapped up in Babette, and it was time to go somewhere and try something new.

Initially he had loathed America.  The people were awkward and standoffish and had the strangest ideas about food.  Men were easily threatened by the merest display of niceness, and the women were either Madonnas or whores--and entirely without interest in what Lumiere considered to be romance.  It was depressing and sad.

At least the children could be charming, when they were not flabby, fat, and lazy. Teaching proved...entertaining.

Home Economics had been the obvious choice for him.  Most days he didn’t really want to do anything but cook and practice _l’art l'amour_.  Since he didn’t find himself doing the one very often, he did a great deal of the other. His students did not have the spark of natural talent in them, but he could coax them into the creation of one or two very tolerable meals.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t trying for romance.  But he was a busy man, and he found Internet relationships unsuited to him.  What he could find at bars was disappointing--there was not a single person there that would really and truly appreciate being properly seduced.  They would mix up the appropriate forks.  One woman he brought home called his foie gras ‘gray stuff’ and he almost threw her bodily out of his apartment, mortally offended.

So he glided along as best he could with half of his usual complement of sangfroid.  He wasn’t helpless, of course, being blessed with a genial disposition at most times and the ability to make himself happy with comparative ease during the rest of it.  He made friends, enjoyed the single life as much as it could be done.  He found a certain amount of common ground with many of his colleagues, and his charm and polite interest, along with a willingness to have new experiences, compensated for all else.  

But it was to one person in particular that Lumiere found himself drawn.  Opposites attracted indeed--if there was anyone at all he could expect to talk to, to laugh with (or at), and/or to fight with on any given day, it was Professor Cogsworth.

Lumiere had immediately formed an intense, almost adversarial friendship with the stout little Mathematics professor.  With everyone else, both men tended to be quite mellow, Lumiere naturally more so than Cogsworth, but when they were thrust together, it was pandemonium and fireworks, for good or for ill.  Before the first two weeks of Lumiere’s hiring were finished, they’d weathered four fights, the last of which saw security personnel stations outside Cogsworth’s office in case they came to blows.  However, they’d also had six successful collaborative efforts, one of which contained a memorable moment that had seen them both howling with laughter over a joke about Baroque architecture.

Cogsworth was occasionally pleasant, rather boring, aggravatingly unbending, remarkably good company when he put his mind to it, and all in all provided Lumiere and most of the other more laid-back teachers with a great deal of entertainment.  Lumiere was almost surprised to recognize that he did like the man quite a lot, for all that they quarreled.  

The development of these friendships steadied him more in his new home.  Finally he’d gotten his feet further under him in this strange, repressed, overly liberal country.  With that, his personality began to come out in much fuller force. 

And that necessarily meant that more of his few little flaws pushed more onto the forefront of his human interactions.  One of those--oh, but it was hard to call something that had been practiced to perfection a ‘flaw’--was his tendency to flirt.  He had always quite a flair for the activity, and when he got started, it was difficult to stop.  

Fortunately, he had fallen in with persons who seemed to chalk it up to his nationality and were not threatened by his jokingly lascivious overtures.  If anyone had ever said one word about it, he would’ve clapped a stopper on it and found another outlet.  It was pleasant, however, being indulged that he might be a little more himself in his workplace.  It would teach the children how to be comfortable without strict repression.

Sexual harassment was never an issue, perhaps because he played it very hammily to show that he was harmless.  Besides that, he was the height of class, naturally.  He would never say anything offensive or push a person beyond their comfort level.  

Well.  Almost never.

He didn’t know what he’d expected from Cogsworth; perhaps just a frosty dismissal and an aggravated eye roll. But the first time he’d snuck up behind Cogsworth and spoken to him with a purr in his voice, the man had gone immediately tense and had blushed scarlet, before jerking away and immediately shouting at him for ‘indecency’ and ‘violation of basic social interaction.’  Lumiere recalled that he’d stood there, the smoking cigarette sitting useless in his mouth, as he stared at the other man’s reaction, watching him storm away.

It was as if a switch was flipped.  He hastily ran through his recollection of their encounters. Was he homophobic? No, not as far as he could see--he got along perfectly well with Nurse Pleakley and M. Bagheera. Besides, that body language as not the language of an angry man, but of a very startled one.

Within a few moments of that reaction, Lumiere realized that there was a very extremely repressed homosexual man who found him attractive and clearly needed someone to bring him out of his shell. He was very likely still a virgin!

That wouldn’t do.  His poor friend!  He could not allow him to continue living half a life, a life without passion or romance or pleasure!  Cogsworth could have such a sumptuous seductive experience, unlearned as he necessarily was to the pleasures of touch and fine cuisine. All that was expected for another would be surprising and new to him, and the consequent enjoyment would be so intensely increased! Someone would need to take him in hand and teach him how to enjoy the amorous attentions of a handsome, well-bred man. 

Lumiere nominated and approved himself for the job and set about it the next day.

It proved to be so extremely diverting.  Cogsworth was so unpolished, so extremely sensitive to everything.  He fought back, all bluster and irritation.  He was, dare he think it, even shy, for he could be in mid-rant when the smallest infringement of his personal space could deflate him, leave him stammering and avoiding eye contact.   (Lumiere was aware that it was to his credit that Cogsworth had gotten better at that lately.)  

Lumiere walked a tight rope, wanting to have a friendly relationship with the man and still coax him out into a more...physical relationship.

That had not been the initial intention, mind.  Lumiere did not think himself the sort of man to discriminate or be very picky about looks. He was blessed with classically handsome features, and had a remarkable felicity for finding redeeming qualities in others, but Cogsworth was not his type.  The few men he’d been with had always been very competent, comfortable, straight-forward, even vain and arrogant.

Cogsworth was a bit arrogant, with it was such a self-conscious self-assurance that Lumiere couldn’t help but be charmed.  The man was not all that bad, in honest--he had very good hair, and soft, full hands, and a rather nice mouth.  His eyes were a much lighter brown than Babette’s had been, and Lumiere found himself grateful for the difference.  And he blushed so extremely fetchingly!

Educating this man within and without the bedroom, he eventually decided, would indeed be a pleasure.  He would not merely bring him out of his shell.  He would make him enjoy it, too.

Sometimes he was almost worried that this mission of his had obsessed him. The more Cogsworth fled, the harder Lumiere pursued him. He touched him chastely at every available opportunity, invaded his personal space under the pretense of whispering, sought his company, flirted with him outrageously. In fact, it had reached a point where Cogsworth didn’t even jump at the occasional caress of Lumiere’s fingers, though he still blushed rather prettily whenever Lumiere leaned over or posed himself in a particularly alluring fashion.

He had been quite confident that all was going well, particularly when Cogsworth had all-but defended his honor at the last teachers’ conference. Some pitiful little dumpling of a man had been pressing his attentions too hard, trying to melt the icy reserve Lumiere put on when he didn’t want to be bothered. Cogsworth had come over, said some rather cutting things, and steered Lumiere away. Honestly, the Mathematics teacher might as well have seized him and kissed him in front of the little runt, for all that he had been subtle about it.

Lumiere had decided then that it was time for the next step, but that was where they stalled out. For the past two years, Lumiere had been able to coax Cogsworth out to coffee and lunches, but never to dinner--and certainly never to dinner-and-breakfast. The man always dismissed him, high in color and frowning, whenever Lumiere invited him out. That was not unforeseen, for naturally the man was suspicious. He thought Lumiere was toying with him? Nonsense. Lumiere was trying to help him! Enough persistence and shortly Cogsworth would see that he was not merely doing this for his health.

But two years was a long time, and Lumiere’s patience was beginning to end. Perhaps it was a little heavy-handed, to contrive the shared bedroom, but he was sure that he would not have cause to regret it.

And then Cogsworth had begun to be very, very strange.

Lumiere did not know what to make of it. Suddenly Cogsworth wasn’t taking the bait. Lumiere had been careful not to be too outrageously charming and seductive, for the other man got so uncomfortable when their colleagues were obviously watching, but it didn’t matter. Cogsworth was cool, collected, composed. He didn’t object or bluster or stammer or blush, no matter what Lumiere said or did.  
 He didn’t entirely know if he liked it. He found it interesting, of course, because this was quite a new development. But he had gotten used to his Cogsworth and liked him that way. 

He would admit he’d been feeling a little desperate last night when he’d stripped down and lounged a little, one eye on the bathroom door. 

But it’d paid off. Cogsworth couldn’t take his eyes off of him. It took a force of will to keep from saying ‘come and get it.’ Romance could’ve waited until after the fact.

Of course the man wouldn’t simply come along that easily. But the way he stared...if Lumiere had had any concerns that his friend was still interested, they were well at ease. 

So now he sat at his breakfast table, contemplating his next move. He’d exhausted his steps to flawless romance months ago--no one had ever been as much of a project as Cogsworth! Where to go from here?

All he was certain of was that he was determined to have his cake and eat it, too. He’d come up with something.

\--

Breakfast was the only good meal of a day, in Jumba’s opinion. There was nothing but breads, meats cooked in fat, and eggs--pure protein. He wished briefly that he’d thought to bring his coffee tankard from home, because the tiny coffee cups the hotel restaurant provided were laughable travesties, but he was making do.

Pleakley was sitting across from him, looking perfectly well-pulled together, although he winced every now and then at every particular upswelling of sound in the room.

“Little one must be feeling effects of last night,” he observed, smirking slightly. Pleakley smiled sheepishly.

“Yeah, a little.” He sipped his drink. “It was worth it, though.”

“Am just glad to see that you are wearing real clothes today,” Jumba replied, annoyed at the reminder of how much _fun_ Pleakley had had. Boo, fun. Down with fun.

Pleakley stuck his tongue out at him. “Meanie. You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m pretty.”

“Feh. Is silly notion.”

“It’s true!” Pleakley grinned at him. “You can’t stand the idea of me being all gorgeous around someone else!”

Jumba lifted his eyebrows, his smirk growing. “Is not nice to see little one running off dressed like that. People will be saying I am a bad boyfriend. They will say ‘look at the hemline--Nurse is fed up with science teacher, going to go after younger man. Now we have chance!’” 

Pleakley fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, now you’re just saying things! Nobody else is going to see my red dress and think they can seduce me away!”

“Was more about shoes.”

Pleakley flipped his hair over his shoulder, obviously pleased. “I can’t control the fact that I’m irresistible in my shoes!”

“Is same thing, problem, whether you are,” he made air quotes with both hands, giving Pleakley a warm look ,“‘irresistible’ in shoes or dress. Little one is too--”

“Wendy!”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Pleakley perked up and waved at the skinny man from yesterday over. He was a namby-pamby little scrawny thing, limp in all his finer joints. Jumba scowled at him as he came over.

“Hello, dear,” he said, leaning down to kiss Pleakley’s cheek. Pleakley turned slightly pink.

“Oh, stop, you’re embarrassing me,” he giggled, waving him into the next seat.

The man took it and smiled across the table at Jumba, offering his hand. “Hello! My name is Wiggins--you must be Dr. Jookiba. I’ve heard so much.”

“Yes,” he said, reluctantly taking the offered hand for the required three-second shake.

There was a heavy silence. Pleakley’s eyes darted between the two men.

“Sooo...” he said, clearing his throat. “Um, I guess you haven’t eaten. Would you like to join us?”

“That would be lovely...er...” His thin face showed worry. “As long as I’m not interrupting anything...”

“No,” Jumba said stiffly, pulling out his wallet. He pulled enough cash for his breakfast out of the billfold and placed it on the table, standing up. “I am done.”

“Oh, are you--”

“Yes,” he said firmly. 

Pleakley blinked, a small frown curving his lips. “Oh. Okay. I’ll see you later?”

He nodded and walked away from the table. He wasn’t going to sit there and watch Pleakley and this Wiggins man giggle. 

He glanced over his shoulder on his way out and had a flash of regret for having left Pleakley unattended. Wiggins’ arm was draped over the back of Pleakley’s chair and he was leaning in close to Pleakley’s ear. Pleakley’s hand jumped up and rested on his shoulder and he shook his head a little. Jumba turned his head forward again and walked away, kicking himself for leaving and kicking himself for kicking himself.

Damn it. 

\--

Wiggins put an arm around his friend’s chair. Wendy had wilted with Dr. Jookiba’s exit and he felt awful. He could tell just from Wendy’s face that he had it bad. “I’m sorry. I think I might’ve scared him off,” Wiggins said, leaning in closer.

Wendy put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it distractedly. He shook his head. “I just don’t understand it. We were having a perfectly nice breakfast. He seemed fine. Then you show up and he just...” Wendy sighed. “I don’t know what’s up with him! He was so...you know, I think he was flirting with me. But as soon as you arrived, he got all angry!”

“He’s straight, isn’t he?” Wiggins asked with a sigh. Wendy nodded. Oh, poor dear. He’d been there--was there now, he thought. He gave Wendy a little squeeze. “Maybe he’s jealous of me?” he asked without any real hope, trying to give Wendy an idea to soothe the sting.

Wendy smiled unhappily. “Please. He’s probably just doesn’t want to hear us nattering on.” He straightened his back and seemed to try to shake off the gloom. “He’s an antisocial grouch, but it grows on you.” Wendy turned to him. “So...what did Mr. Ratcliffe make of my lipstick stain?”

Wiggins offered a wincing smile. “He asked if I’d been out with that trollopy blonde I’d thrown him over for in the lobby.”

Wendy’s expression was priceless.

\--

Cogsworth heard a shout coming from the restaurant just as he was signing for his name badge in the entrance to the convention center. If he wasn’t mistaken, the word that was shouted was “TROLLOPY?” and it was shouted in Nurse Pleakley’s voice.

He decided that it wasn’t worth wondering, and clipped the tag on. He did a quick inventory.

Mostly sleepless night? Check.

Vivid dreams while asleep? Check. 

Constant awareness of the almost completely-naked man not ten feet away from him? 

Oh, that one was a big check.

He straightened his clothing, determined to soldier on.

Here went nothing.

He looked up to see Lumiere walking toward him. Obviously he’d already been spotted and there was nowhere to go.

He could still imagine that tall, slender body, without the concealing fabric of the day’s clothing. 

Oh, this was going to be a long, long day.


	5. Apéritif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pleakley settles Jumba's hash. Cogsworth and Lumiere get quite a bit closer and some feathers are ruffled--though not those of the person you might assume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, originally I was going to have more. I was going to cover the reception in this chapter.
> 
> But then Cogsworth and Lumiere demanded this scene, and as you can see I am rubbish at denying them anything.
> 
> Also, fun note--for Cogsworth's moment of monumental dumbness about his attractiveness, please c.f. the amazing ~muffinpoodle's shabumpadump (http://muffinpoodle.deviantart.com/art/shabumpadump-212999986) for angsty Cogsworth angsting out over something that makes him angst. Poor baby. Thanks, ~muffinpoodle! As usual, you are a hero to the people and an inspiration to the children.
> 
> And of course thank you Blaze (!UrbanCowgirl804, for those who have been living under a rock) for building the playground and letting people like me play on it.

Jumba only barely glanced up from his book when he heard Pleakley open the door.  He’d been avoiding his companion all day, unwilling to deal with the consequences of breakfast’s sudden termination.  He had noticed that in his absence, Pleakley had taken to holding Wiggins’ arm.  

He frowned just to think about it.  He was so used to the slight, tiny weight of Pleakley’s hand in the crook of his elbow that he’d been off-balance without it.  Watching the little scrawny man ferrying Pleakley around all day had been deeply aggravating.  At least Pleakley had been wearing real clothes today, trousers and a blouse--he could just imagine what the two of them must’ve looked like last night, dancing together with Pleakley in that unbelievable red dress.  

He hated watching them together, but he endured it silently, leaving the room when they entered, or at least sitting as far away as possible.

After all, what could he have done, anyway?  Stormed over there and snatched Pleakley away?  Perhaps thrown the nurse over his shoulder?  Of course not--he wasn’t really Pleakley’s boyfriend, and that meant that Pleakley could keep whatever company he chose--as could Jumba, at least in theory.  

He wasn’t being jealous, he reminded himself.  At most, he was worried about his friend, because Pleakley was just the sort of person to pin his hopes on someone unsuitable and get that big, generous heart of his smashed into a million tiny pieces.  He didn’t want to see that happen.  And, more practically, if Pleakley got a boyfriend, that would mean their comfy living arrangement would be at an end.  

And--here was the part that he was sure, totally certain, was what was bothering him so much--the less time Pleakley spent with him, the less credible their cover story was.  They’d spent years building up that credibility.  They’d taken pains to create a perfect illusion, and now it was all going to go to hell because someone was going to pick up on the fact that Dr. Jookiba and Nurse Pleakley were on the rocks and ‘she’ was seeing other people.  Before they knew it, any one of the Pleakley-admirers that they’d so efficiently fought off would take a chance and someone would find about about Pleakley’s ‘little secret.’  In fact, with Wiggins waltzing Pleakley all over the convention center, an admirer had obviously blown through the ranks already.   

A suitor was making significantly more headway than any of the others had, and Jumba was far more furious than he should be.

The door swung open.

“Hey there,” said Pleakley, oddly subdued but thankfully alone.  He stepped through the doorway and pulled off his shoes. The door swung closed behind him and he approached as if Jumba were an injured animal and Pleakley was daring to enter his den. 

Growling probably wouldn’t improve the impression.  He shifted and muttered, “Hello.”

“You have a nice day?” Pleakley asked, sitting carefully on his bed and taking off his shoes.

“Fine.  Boring.  Panelists all sound the same,” he observed.

Pleakley smiled.  “Yeah, a little.  I wasn’t really listening for most of the time.”  He threw his arms wide and flopped back onto the bed.  “But hey!  We’re in a fancy hotel and I didn’t even have to make the beds!”

“Are you going to reception?” Jumba asked, pretending to return to his book.

“Of course I am!  Even though I just want to lie here and never ever move,” Pleakley sighed, as he sprawled himself even further out on the bed.  “Wait.  Aren’t you coming?”

“Nyet,” he said firmly.  “Have no interest.  Nobody there is worth meeting.”

“What?  No way!  You can’t expect me to go all alone!”  Pleakley cried, sitting upright.

“Will not be alone.  Will have little skinny man to talk to.”  What was that tone in his voice?  He’d meant it as a statement of fact.  It sounded...harder, harsher than he’d intended.

“I can’t go with him--you’re my boyfriend!  What are people going to think?”

Jumba was hard-pressed not to smile a little at that.  Good.  At least Pleakley hadn’t forgotten who was who.  He stopped himself with the memory that that kind of sentiment was ridiculous and that he had no business being pleased.  “They will be thinking you have found younger, skinnier man.”

“I don’t want a younger, skinnier man!” Pleakley exclaimed, before hastily covering his mouth with a hand.  Jumba glanced up at that, and Pleakley must’ve caught the grin in his eye, because the nurse blushed darkly and frowned at him.  “Oh, you--I--that’s not what I meant!  You know what I mean!  I’m, I’m...I’m not some hussy that just drops her boyfriend as soon as someone else comes along!  And I don’t appreciate it!  You know, someone already called me ‘trollopy’ today and I didn’t expect to hear the same sentiment from you, you big jerk!”

“Am not calling you ‘trollop!’” Jumba said.  “Who called you that?  Does anyone know?  I will be good boyfriend and go break his face.”

Pleakley looked at him.  “Wiggins’ colleague, actually--you know, the one he’s hopelessly in love with?” the nurse drawled.  

“...skinny man is in love...?”

“Yes, duh, as if it can’t be seen from space!” Pleakley exclaimed.  “He kept leaving me to my own devices all day, because he’d go bounding off at an instant’s notice to fetch and carry for that brute.  He’s besotted and the man is so incredibly awful--he won’t give Wiggins the time of day.”  

Well.  Then what was he doing hanging around Pleakley all the time?!  “Did not know there were so many relationship issues,” he said gruffly.  “Maybe he has decided to settle down with nicer person.”

“What, you mean me?”  Pleakley snorted.  “Yeah, right.  I’m not even close to his type--and he’s not even close to mine!”  Pleakley frowned for a moment, before staring at him with wide eyes.  “Wait.  A.  Minute.”

Jumba didn’t like that look.  “What?  What is problem?”

Pleakley was starting to grin.  “Were you _jealous_ of me and Wiggins?  Is that why you were such a huge grouchy jerk this morning?”

“I was not being jerk!  Did not even think about tiny man,” Jumba said, doing his best to look incredulous.

“Oh, my goodness, you totally were.  You were totally jealous of us!”  Pleakley’s grin blazed sharp and delighted and mischievous on his pretty face.  “Are you crazy?!  Wiggins and _me_?  No way!  Never!  Oh, Jumba, did you think I’d throw over my own boyfriend like that?  What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Pleakley was nearly tittering now.  Jumba scowled at him.

“Little one is making mountain out of molehill.  Just did not like him.”  

“You are such a liar!” Pleakley cried.  “Aww...I’m sorry, Jumba sweetie, I didn’t even think for a second about your feelings...”  Pleakley was eating this up.  

Jumba decided to put the breaks on it.  “I have old enemy here...used to work on experiments together.  Was very interested in obvious genius.  Is always nice to have good-looking woman hanging off of arm when meeting old enemies.”

Pleakley huffed, his bright smile gone.  “Oh, I see!  So you only wanted me for eye candy?  Well, I’m not buying it!  You could get any lady you wanted and you were all hung up over me!  You were rude to a stranger over it!”

“Usually rude to strangers, remember?” Jumba asked, smirking slightly.

Pleakley shook his head.  “You were jealous and that is that.  So now you’re going to make it up to me.”

“What?”

“You were rude to my friend, so now you have to take me to the reception.”

“Punishment is not fitting with crime!”

“And you’re going to apologize for being such a big sourpuss, or I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of your ‘old enemy,’” Pleakley said, making big air-quotes with his fingers.

Jumba frowned.  “Cannot go.  Will have to wear this.”  He gestured proudly at the loud Hawaiian shirt he’d worn in stern rejection of the niceties of the business casual dress code.

Pleakley waved a hand.  “Don’t worry about it!  I brought a shirt and a suit coat for you.”

Jumba stared.  “You did what?”

“I knew you were going to be all petulant and refuse to be nicely dressed,” Pleakley sighed.  “So I decided to help.  Give me a minute and I’ll have it all ironed and ready to go!”

“No!  I am staying here!”

“Really?” 

“Yes.  That is end of it.”

“Well, all right...I’ll just wear the little dress I wore last night...”

Pleakley was terrible at getting anyone’s goat.  “Does not matter to me, little one.  You do what you want.”

“Even though you’ll be steaming like a broccoli over it?” he asked, giving him a devilish smirk.

“Will not.”

“Prove it.  Come with me and show me you aren’t angry at my friend.”

Damn.  That was surprisingly good.  “Half an hour.”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Deal,” Pleakley said, grinning.  “I’ll get the coat ready!”

\--

It had to be the force of divine guidance that got Cogsworth got through the day, because his head was not in the game.

He looked at his own weary reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, pressing a finger against his cheek and lightly tugging on one of the dark circles under his eye.  He sighed heavily, leaning on the counter.

He really needed some rest.  He could feel how tense he was, his muscles coiling into thick knots on his back and shoulders and his neck.  Cogsworth sighed, trying to will his body into relaxation.  He knew it was a fool’s errand--he could never just relax.  That would be too easy.  If he could just do that, he would’ve done it years ago.

He poured himself a glass of water and took a long drink.  He should’ve been paying attention today, because some of the panels he’d sat in on had very interesting titles.  He was here to gain new perspective and information, not to daydream or to lose his focus.  He should’ve been taking notes, making erudite observations, asking pertinent questions, meeting with experts in the field.

And instead he had sat there, hyperaware of the slim Frenchman that had kept close to his side the entire day.  

Lumiere had sidled up to him in morning, fresh as a daisy and smiling.  The other man had made a great deal of conversation but hadn’t pressed his attentions on him at all, as Cogsworth had feared he might.  The night before had been difficult, between trying and failing to sleep and trying and failing to avoid dreaming when he was asleep.  And after a long day of half-listening to panelists, he was seriously considering skipping the reception this evening.

He could just imagine it.  Lumiere would naturally want to go and would flit out the door in time enough to be fashionably late, and then--their room would be as silent as a tomb, and in peace and privacy he could melt against the crisp, fluffy white comforter, burying himself in the dozen pillows, curl up and just _rest_ for hours in the evening twilight, let his brain finally turn off...

It would be so heavenly.

But he had a job to do.  He was here to work, whether he liked it or not.  There could be valuable contacts to make at the reception, conversations that he would regret missing in the morning.  He’d been useless all day--his only hope of gaining a shadow of competence was to recoup his losses by being focused and engaged this evening.

Besides, if he didn’t go, neither would the others.  He’d spotted Phil and Terk earlier in the day and was pleased to see that they’d been going to sit in on some of the meetings, but once the sun went down he didn’t trust them, or really any of the other teachers, not to stray.  This would be his chance to do a head count and ensure that his party was still united.  If he were gone, all of the others would make excuses to wander off.  He was their sheep dog and he had to keep them in order.

He took a deep breath, pulling himself together.  Cogsworth glanced up in the mirror and the air left his lungs in an explosive rush.  He gently prodded that under-eye circle again, trying feebly to straighten his hair and not appear so utterly wrecked.

“Just look at you,” he mumbled to himself.  “Untidy and wretched.  And getting on in years, I might add.  Who would have you?”  He sighed, staring, knowing it was true.  There he was--too tense, plainly exhausted, barely presentable and agonizing over it.  Overweight, overly precise, miserably, utterly unhappy...

“Who would have a fat, prissy, obsessive-compulsive man like you?” he asked wearily.  It was so very funny, the way Lumiere picked up on that and made parody of it.  It was an ungentle parody, but if Cogsworth had been of another frame of mind, he might have laughed, for he absolutely saw the humor.  What could be more incongruous than that svelte, stylish, likable, outrageously flamboyant man paying his attentions to a man like the one he saw in the mirror?

Lumiere didn’t mean to be unkind.  It was really quite funny.  Cogsworth played it seriously because it flustered him, because that foul, idiotic desire he had tried so ceaselessly to squelch tended to reach up and clutch at him. But he knew it was just a joke.  

It didn’t even deserve this much seriousness, this much thought.  It was just that he was so tired.  His mind wasn’t working properly.

Cogsworth finished his water and, with a last glance at the mirror, walked into the bedroom.

And, sure enough, there was Lumiere, lounging on his bed, fully dressed this time.  The man had been stuck to him like a shadow all day, and Cogsworth was not pleased to have finally realized just what a comparison there was between his haggard appearance and that of the immaculate Home Economics teacher.

He looked at his bed.  Oh, what a siren call that mattress sang...

“Mon cher?”

Cogsworth supposed that meant him.  He walked over to one of the chairs and sank into it.  “Yes, Lumiere?  What is it?”

“Are you feeling ill, Cogsworth?  You look exhausted.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he admitted.  Surely Lumiere would take credit for it himself--he didn’t need to confess what had been keeping him up.

Ooh.  Poor choice of words.

“Oh, what a shame.  You look stressed.  Perhaps there is something I could do?  Something to help you unwind?”

Oh, blast it, here it came.  Well, he wasn’t going to just quail before him!  A bit of a stiff upper lip had done him wonders earlier yesterday and it was worth another shot!

“Not unless you feel like running about all night keeping everyone in line,” Cogsworth said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.

“...very well.  I will do it.”

Cogsworth looked at him suspiciously.  “Ha.  Ha.”

“I am serious, mon cher,” replied Lumiere, breathing out a plume of smoke.  “I am sure everyone will behave in your absence.”

“Oh-ho, is that what you’re sure of?” snorted Cogsworth.  “Well, you would be surprised.”

“If you would like the night off, say the word,” smiled Lumiere.  “I will endeavor to pick up the slack.”

Cogsworth gave him a skeptical glance.  “...no.  But thank you, I suppose, for the offer.”  He shook his head.  “I will sleep better tonight out of exhaustion.”

Apparently Lumiere was in an almost ridiculously solicitous mood.  “Then can I do anything now?  Perhaps make tea, or provide a back rub?”

Goodness gracious.  That would be utterly, utterly delicious.  A decent cup of tea and a pair of hands on his back, working out some of those knots?  It would be the height of decadence.

But he mustn’t.  Oh, how he mustn’t.  It would be obscene, vulgar--so very dirty.  Wrong.  He’d have to allow Lumiere’s hands on his bare skin.  He’d have to lie still and let the man touch him so very much...

“No," Cogsworth said firmly.  "I am sure it would be improper,” he added.  It was a terrible idea and he could feel his heart hammering already, but he was determined not to fluster.  Don’t fluster.  Don’t.  “And unwise.  I am sure it cannot be a good idea to turn one’s back on you.”

“Oh, mon cher, but I can make it so very worth your while,” Lumiere said with a bold wink.  “Besides, what is the worst that can happen?  I will keep it perfectly civil...and you do so desperately need a bit of attention, mon petit.  I would be happy to lend what small assistance I can provide to a friend in need."

Nonsense.  He wanted a bit of a laugh.  Cogsworth wanted to be offended by that, but somehow he couldn't quite get there.  It probably was no good for him that he'd become so very used to being an object for this man's amusement.

And yet.  It would be improper, inappropriate, scandalous, shameful, reprehensible...but to be allowed to unwind like that?  He wanted nothing more.  He just wanted a bit of rest.

"Come now, Cogsworth," Lumiere purred.  "You cannot tell me a bit of a break would be unwelcome.  It would be good for you and you know it.   Allow me to work a bit of my magic..."

Cogsworth tried with some difficulty to avoid biting the inside of his lip.  He mustn't, mustn't, mustn't, but he couldn't appear to have any weakness on the subject.  The fact that he really did want it was probably writ large on his face and easily legible to a man like Lumiere, who no doubt had experience in tempting reluctant persons all his life.

"It would make me quite happy to make you happy," the Frenchman murmured, in a voice thrown too low, with a gaze that was just this side of what one might well call 'bedroom eyes.'

The little part of Cogsworth that had never had too many scruples regarding Lumiere in the first place was working itself up into a veritable tizzy.  He couldn't deny that other parts of him were very tempted by the prospect, but caution and knowledge of how the joke would necessarily work was, as yet, still holding him back.  But that unscrupulous part...good Lord, the language he was thinking was beginning to tinge blue.  Torn halfway between 'take it, take it, take the damn offer' and 'don't be foolish, you've embarrassed us enough for one day already,'  Cogsworth made a stupid decision.

"Very well," he conceded, sighing.  Let the bloody lunatic gloat--as long as he got a good back rub, he could smirk and purr all he liked, provided it didn't become gossip fodder.  (Who was he kidding, incidentally? Of course it would be gossip fodder, but then everything about them seemed to be, whether or not he allowed Lumiere to do anything.)  It was about time Cogsworth got something out of this torturous game the man liked so much to play.

Lumiere looked nearly surprised, before grinning brightly.  He hopped to his feet, stubbing out his cigarette in tea cup saucer he'd converted into an ash tray.  "Excellent!  Prepare yourself, mon cher--you have never known the touch of a true expert in these matters and it will be a memorable experience."

"Wait, wait, wait, just you wait one moment," Cogsworth said in a sharp tone.  "There will be rules for this engagement, if you don't mind!"

"My dear friend.  Something involving you has rules?  You shock me," drawled Lumiere, rolling his eyes.

"First of all, I am not going to undress for this," said Cogsworth.  "I'm going to remain in my shirt.  It would be appalling otherwise."

"Oh, that I greatly doubt," Lumiere replied with a frankly admiring gaze.  Cogsworth very deliberately made nothing of it.

"Second, this stays on the shoulders, all right?  We need not descend into...depravity," he insisted.

"Oh, can't we?  It would be such a pleasant change..."

"And finally...I would ask you not to mention this to the others," Cogsworth said in a quieter tone.  "Dear as our colleagues are to me, I would not have them know of such a display of weakness on my part.  They'd pounce on it and all would descend into a chaos."

"Oui, of course, mon cher.  It would be horrifying if anyone should know that you were even slightly mortal," Lumiere sighed.  "Is there anything else?  Should I wear gloves?  Perhaps I could darken the windows so we need not clearly see the paramount shame of a man receiving a fully-clothed back rub?"

Cogsworth almost smiled at the other man's obvious annoyance.  There.  At least now he wasn't the only one feeling a little out of his depth.  "No, I think that will be sufficient."

"Bon.  Remove your coat and necktie and lie on your front."

\--

Lumiere had no intentions whatsoever of playing by the rules.  For all love, he’d finally gotten the man to lie down in bed and let him touch him!  He’d be an idiot if he kept him fully-clothed and untouched beneath his shoulders.

Fortunately, he was not without experience in the art of seduction.

Cogsworth stretched out on the bed face first, with a small noise that Lumiere didn’t entirely know how to classify but thoroughly enjoyed.   Wasn’t that a thrill, seeing his friend obeying his instructions, lying placidly under his control?  What a banquet he could make out of him--but first things first.  One didn’t even need to see him undressed to be able to tell that he was horribly, horribly stressed, his shoulders held too high, his back too stiff.  

Lumiere sat down beside him, smiling slightly.  He would do right by him, fix him up.  He just had to give him a little taste of what he could have if he only consented to some new rules--the hard part had already been done.

Honestly, he had been entirely shocked that Cogsworth had taken him up on his offer.  He had kept an eye on the man all day and had been slightly worried at how quickly and intensely exhausted the man had grown.  He was pleased that he’d finally come around to getting a bit of help--after all, what were friends for?  Lumiere refused to entertain the idea that it mere exhaustion that was driving his friend to find relief under his skillful hands.

He started slowly, touching both palms against Cogsworth’s clothed shoulder blades to show him where his hands were.  A back rub through a shirt.  What nonsense!  What madness!  Sometimes he was utterly mystified by the idiosyncrasies of the English.

He made no pretense of not relishing the contact he had been working towards for years, finally putting his hands on his man.  They had touched before, countless times, but here at last was where the rubber met the road.

Cogsworth was more responsive than he thought he’d be.  The man did not make a sound, of course, that probably would’ve been uncouth, but as soon as Lumiere’s hands were upon him, something in him settled.  He didn’t relax, really, but he lost some of the fine, constant tension that always ran through him.  Lumiere could almost feel his heart.  His expression was interesting, as the man had his face towards Lumiere and his eyes closed.  His mouth was slightly pursed and slightly frowning, but the pinched look about his eyebrows had disappeared.

Lumiere smiled a little, pressing firmly with hands and fingers as he began to rub.  Mustn’t let him get too comfortable, after all.

He hated the blasted shirt.  He was probably doing it some damage, after all, since he was obliged to heavily muss it in pursuit of a decent pressure.  It wasn’t helping the process at all.  He had a little bottle of massage oil that he always brought along when he traveled--a true gentleman is always prepared for anything--and it would’ve made the experience much more pleasant. But there it was in his valise, going to woeful waste.  

Nevertheless, Cogsworth had obviously taken to this like a fish to water, as he was quite docile beneath him. There wasn’t even the merest peep of protest now--he supposed that the pleasure must’ve gotten right in amongst that icy English reserve of his and dulled his protesting instincts. Lumiere couldn’t be more pleased.

“Tell me if there is anywhere in particular that could use a little attention,” he murmured, trying to sound perfectly composed.  He wasn’t uncomposed, by any stretch of the imagination, really, but if Cogsworth heard even a faint smile in his voice, he’d think Lumiere was laughing at him and not merely enjoying this very unusual experience.

“Could you just...perhaps a bit more to the right?” asked the other man.  He must have started to feel better, because his voice was low and quiet, and the faint tone of request was quite a treat.  Lumiere savored it.

“Bien sur, mon cher,” he said softly, carefully finding just the right spot and rubbing his fingertips into it.  This time, Cogsworth made a soft noise, half-pained.  “Pardon--did I press too hard?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Cogsworth said, practically sighing.  “I hate to admit it, but you are really quite remarkable at this.”

“Merci,” he smiled, working his hands across the man’s back for a few more silent minutes.  Just when he could see Cogsworth really beginning to enjoy it--his expression had said it all--he stopped.  “I am afraid that is all I can do.”

Cogsworth’s eyes popped open and a flash of desperation crossed his face, before it was replaced with far more proper annoyance.  “What?  That’s all?  What do you mean?  Of course you could continue...” Cogsworth glared at him for a moment, before he evidently realized what a scandalous sentiment that was. Embarrassment was clear in his expression as he cleared his throat and looked away. “Ah, unless, that is, you are speaking because you have another engagement. Naturally I wouldn’t keep you. Thank you, I’m sure that was sufficient.”

He wanted it. He wanted it so badly, and Lumiere knew it--knew Cogsworth knew it. Lumiere almost grinned.  But now his friend’s eyes were on him and he had to stay in character.  He shook his head.  “Non, not at all...I should be happy to continue, and most of my evening is quite free.”  He wouldn’t remind Cogsworth about the reception just yet.  “But should I proceed further, I am somewhat worried about the state of your skin.  The shirt would begin to chafe and it would defeat the purpose if you were in pain.”

“...yes, I see your point. I suppose the friction was a little distracting,” Cogsworth confessed.  It took everything Lumiere had not to smirk at his unintentional innuendo.  “I...well, listen, Lumiere, I don’t mean to impose upon you, but I really feel like this is taking off a few years...” 

Lumiere agreed.  The man already looked less weary.  A little physical interaction with a human being was really all he needed.  

He knew it.  

Cogsworth was clearing his throat again. “And I won’t delay you, if you have something you need to do, because it’s truly inconsequential...”

“That I doubt, mon cher. I am sure there are few better uses to which my hands can be put than relieving some of that tension of yours." Ah, innuendo was flying thick and fast today! "It can hardly be healthy," he added, pretending to be thinking of a different tension.

“Er, well, probably not, no. But, ah, perhaps this was a poor idea to begin with...” A retreat? Oh no. Not now! 

“If you are uncomfortable, we need not proceed any farther, but as I said--it is my pleasure to please you.”  Come on, Cogsworth, take the bait...

“You would not be...offended, would you, if I were to ask you to continue?” Cogsworth asked haltingly, clearly embarrassed to even be thinking of asking.  “I...I won’t remove my shirt entirely, but...I really do feel a great deal better and I appreciate it enormously.”

“Offended? Not at all, mon cher, as long as you are at ease,” Lumiere said.  Hook, line, and sinker.  “Actually, I might have something that will make the process more pleasant.  Would you mind if I retrieved it?  It is a little oil...likely to improve the experience for the both of us.”

“...very well, if you think so.  Just leave me enough time to have a quick bath before we need to leave,” Cogsworth said.  Lumiere smiled and went to dig around in his valise, allowing the other man his privacy to undress.

When he’d turned around, his own reaction surprised him.  Cogsworth was not, he was aware, what one might call a classically handsome man--he was far too short and round and stocky for it.  But when he was stretched out like that, that pale, untouched skin exposed to the room, his shoulders and arms bared for the first time in memory, supple and prone and anticipatory of another’s touch...he was really almost  delicious.  Lumiere was always rail-thin, and he’d always liked a lover with meat on their bones--no matter which gender he pursued, he liked curves.  Cogsworth, though he would never condone the word because of its feminine connotations, was quite curvaceous.  

He’d gotten out of his shirt and in a rather charming fit of modesty, he’d draped it across his middle and lower back--Lumiere could just see where the curve of his spine began to dip down before it was obscured by the hated fabric. His weight hung on him well, a soft, inviting plushness about the man making his hands itch to touch.

And he was so red in the face, frowning slightly, eyes closed, embarrassed at his own partial nakedness.

It was absolutely precious.

He felt his heart thud a little, feeling a warm swell of affection for this small, aggravating, miserable little man. Something about him excited all of Lumiere's competitive and romantic instincts; perhaps it was the neglect that this man had obviously suffered as far as love and passion were concerned.

No matter what, Lumiere thought, no matter how difficult the man was, no matter how they fought, no matter how often Cogsworth made him want to tear his own hair out in frustration, he would do right by him.

On to business. 

\--

There was a small part of his brain that was still aware of how extremely inappropriate this was. He was nearly naked, lying on his belly, his flabby, pallid body on display, and he was eagerly awaiting the oiled touch of another man. He should be ashamed--indeed, he was already blushing. He was making a complete fool of himself. Because really, as if he couldn't have been more pathetic about asking--nigh onto begging--for more. What must the other man be thinking? 

Unfortunately for that bit of brain, it must've been the neighbor to whatever processed pain and pleasure, and that part was entirely drowning out its more repressed colleague with shouts about how WONDERFUL the Frenchman’s touch felt.

Lumiere was an extremely talented man, and Cogsworth consoled himself with the thought that there wasn't a reasonable human being that could sinlessly cast a stone about Cogsworth's letting the man have his will. He was fairly certain that the man could commit murder in front of several police officers, a magistrate, the president of the United States, and fourteen other eyewitnesses and get away with it by giving them that bright, mischievous smile. 

It wasn't Cogsworth's fault. The man was just too good.

Later, he knew he'd be mortified. Later, when the others snickered into their sleeves and made comments about the absurdity of the whole affair, he knew he might hate himself for this unforgivable breach, this horrible moment of supreme weakness.

Later, when he awoke from recalling this man's touch in dreams he denied having, he would curse his lack of will for giving him new fodder to torment himself with.

But that would be then and this was now. All he wanted now was more of that wonderful feeling.

When Lumiere sat down beside him again, Cogsworth was hard-pressed not to sigh aloud. At the first trickle of a cold liquid on his back, however, his muscles immediately seized up, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. He could hear the slight chuckle of the man beside him at his body's reaction. "Lumiere!"

"A thousand apologies, mon ami, that was thoughtless. I will warm it up for you," he said. All throughout this encounter, the man's voice had been distractingly low. Cogsworth found it hard to focus on anything, much less indignation, when he was speaking that softly. 

"Hmph. I imagine you are a master of little details like temperature...you just like getting a rise out of me."

"Oh, you have no idea," Lumiere said, in an even warmer tone. Cogsworth felt his cheeks turning a darker red. That was vulgar.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally, allowing himself a very small sigh as Lumiere's hands once more slid over his back. He had to admit, it did feel so much better without his shirt. There was no coarse fabric rubbing into his skin, just the slick fluid and the other man's warm, slender hands. He was very gifted with those hands. They danced over his shoulder blades, pressing firmly here and there, rubbing out tension and pain he'd not even known he'd been holding onto. To hell with sleep--this was far more relaxing than mere unconsciousness could ever be.

"How is that, mon coeur?" asked that low, warm voice. 

"Fine," Cogsworth sighed. "Only, if you wouldn't mind...perhaps a little harder?" 

Lumiere said nothing, instead simply pressing his fingertips deeper into his muscles. Cogsworth hastily stifled a groan, biting his lower lip. Ooh, it hurt a bit, but the mingling warmth and slight discomfort made for an intoxicating mixture. 

"Better, petit?" Lumiere asked, leaning over him a little further to provide the requested pressure. 

"Yes," Cogsworth murmured, "you were right to brag about this."

"Merci," Lumiere said, whispered, really. 

Cogsworth sighed and shifted a little underneath his hands, every now and then unable to refrain from pressing himself further into the mattress to try to avoid the almost painful weight Lumiere put behind his touches. Every now and then a small noise would escape him.

"Pardon," he whispered after one half-silenced groan.

Lumiere's smile was in his voice, but it did not sound at all mocking or self-satisfied; just full of more of that sumptuous warmth that poured off of the man. "Are you all right? I am not being too rough?"

"No," he replied. "It's perfect."

"You need not stifle yourself," said Lumiere. "I take no objection to your sounds. They tell me where to focus my attention. Besides, perhaps it is that stifling that is making you so tense, mon coeur."

Cogsworth didn't become vocal by any standard, but he certainly did loosen up a little, and the few sounds he did make he didn't bother to clamp his jaw down on. 

It was exquisite, heavy and warm and delicious...he couldn't bear the thought of pulling away from this man, being dragged out of this warm, delicious state of pleasure and hazy thinking, being forced to throw up his walls once more and pretend that this wasn't one of the more wonderful experiences of his sad, sterile life. 

So he didn't think about it. He savored it, shamelessly luxuriated in it. The erection he presently developed should have alarmed him, terrified and mortified him, called to mind how he wasn't a sexual being at all, ever, much less something as improper as a homosexual, but it didn't. It was natural, reciprocal...one delicious friction was exchanged for another.

After what felt like mere seconds but had surely been at least an hour, Lumiere's incredibly warm hands came to a stop over both of his shoulder blades. He could hear the other man's breath, surprisingly heavy in the stillness. Perhaps he'd been exerting more effort than Cogsworth had realized, kneading into his body.

He hated the thought of the reception. He'd so much rather just stay here. 

"Have you fallen asleep on me, mon cher?" asked Lumiere in something closer to his normal voice. 

"Not entirely," Cogsworth replied, his mouth feeling heavy and slow.

"Are you sure you will not have the night off?" Lumiere asked in a voice that would shame the finest of the devil's tempters. 

"Quite sure," sighed Cogsworth. "I suppose I should bathe before we go down."

"Very well. Would you mind if I used the wash room ahead of you?"

"Go on," Cogsworth agreed, pleased to have a few moments to relax and will away his erection.

"Merci."

\--

Lumiere walked steadily into the wash room and closed the door behind him, practically gasping only when he was certain that the door was closed. 

“ _My God!_ ”

Oh. That had been a little much. That had been a little bit entirely too much. 

His hands were tingling from exertion and the phantom sensation of that smooth, white skin sliding slicking under his palms. His head was reeling with those heady, delicious little noises the other man had hardly been aware he was making. He trembled slightly, trying to catch his breath and ignore the sublimity of that experience. Good God. He’d thought Cogsworth was all right, certainly, but when he had that man half-naked and underneath him and so open, so responsive and so very willing and receptive to his touch...oh, and he had responded, hadn’t he, and not panicked a bit. He’d just allowed him such delicious liberties...allowed Lumiere to have his way with him...

He wanted so badly to completely have his way with that man.

Lumiere swallowed thickly, washing the oil off his hands. He wasn’t used to being discombobulated like this, but his own arousal had taken him very much by surprise. He washed his face and stared himself down in the mirror. 

“ _Not yet,_ ” he murmured. “ _Keep it together. Not yet. It’s not time. Do not get so worked up--it was nothing, a trifle, and it has been a while. Nothing to worry about. Your reaction is mere anomaly. Do not get so excited._ ”

But it had been so exciting...

He shook his head, pulling out his hair tie and fixing his ponytail. He thought carefully about cold things, about fast food, about Le Fou, until he was calm. He primped himself up carefully, straightening his clothing and smoothing his ruffled feathers. He put on a little more cologne, squared his shoulders, and smiled in the mirror. Perfect. Immaculate. 

He brushed himself off a little more and strode out into the room. 

He pretended that all the air didn’t leave his body liked he’d been punched in the stomach when he spotted a sleepily smiling Cogsworth sitting up on a rumbled bed, his hair in disarray and cheeks flushed, his open shirt hanging off his shoulders. The man was so very ravishable that it made Lumiere positively ache.

Not that he was admitting to anything, but he might have _ever_ so slightly started this without fully considering the consequences. 

“At last,” Cogsworth said, a shadow of his usual aggravation in his tone. He rose and wandered into the bathroom and the door shut behind him. 

Lumiere sat on his bed with a whump. He needed a smoke.


	6. Poor Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terk and Phil's relationship gets rocky. Pleakley gets a backstory, a make-out scene, and a crushing blow to his ability to keep it together. Jumba can't even. And Zazu's flying the coop.
> 
> By sheer lack of appearance, Lumiere and Cogsworth are looking remarkably sane.

Phil's eyebrows shot up as Terk stepped out of the elevator. She smirked at him, posing in the open door for a second before sauntering out.

Phil let out a loud whistle. She was wearing the shirt that made her tits look great. He loved the tit shirt. 

"Lookin' good, gorgeous," he grinned. "You waitin' for anybody?"

"You better back off," she replied. "I gotta boyfriend with a bad temper. He'll kick the crap outta you whether I think you're all right or not.”

"Lucky son of a bitch," Phil said around his cigar, offering his arm. Terk punched him in it, rolling her eyes. Never one for the niceties, his gal. Not to be put off, he slung an arm around her waist and pulled her close, seeing the smile through her grimace. "You ready to go do this?"

"It's gonna be so freakin' boring!" she groused. "I don't wanna stand around with a bunch of eggheads and talk about 'ooh, statistics' and 'ooh, policy.' Bullshit. It's freakin' Sunday night in a big city--there's gotta be something out there we can do."

"Probably," he agreed. "Listen--we'll do little appetizers here and then go to one of those 24 hour gyms and I'll let'cha try to smoke me on the rock climb."

"Try? Ain't no try, Phil. I'll make mincemeat outta you," Terk grinned.

"Heh, you can try, sugar! I'm a freakin' billy goat, I'll be sittin' pretty at the top while you're pantin' up the kiddie climb."

"You're gonna eat those words, man." Terk stuck her chin out like she was spoiling for a fun.

He liked that about her. Too many girls nowadays didn't have spunk. No touchy-feely, 'tell me more about my eyes' crap here. Just a stellar, really sexy lady up for a good time. There was a lot to love about a woman like that. 

"Whatever, girlie," he said, chuffing her on the chin. "Let's get it over with."

Terk gave him such a smirk as they made their way to the conference room that had been set up for the reception. It was right across from the hotel's pool--and man, in weather like this, what he wouldn't do to strip down and go for a dip instead of dealing with this stupid networking garbage. Of course, Cogsworth would have his ass in a sling, or at the very least never shut up about it, if he bailed.

"You think the private school's gonna be there?" asked Terk.

"Naw, they're probably smart enough not to waste their evenings on this," Phil said, chewing on his unlit cigar. He'd been a smoker for decades before he'd mostly quit, but he couldn't get used to not having a stogie in his mouth. He lit up once a day, despite his doctor. Terk liked them, luckily enough, and sometimes they had a smoke together.

It took a real dame to look natural smoking a cigar and shouting at a boxing match while naked in bed.

It was just a little bit more of all he liked about her.

\--

Pleakley had never been much for women. He was much better at pretending to be them than he'd ever been at dating them.

It had caused his mother much strife when he was growing up and she'd come in from work to find her eldest son doing his chores in her high heels and pearls. But really, what had she been thinking in the first place, naming him 'Wendy'? It wasn't even short for 'Wendall'; all it was short for was 'Wendy.' He was an awkward child, uncomfortable in his own skin and confused by how different he was. All the things that felt good and natural to him were bad. He made his mother upset and his siblings didn’t like him. He learned how to hide himself, but it was exhausting to him, and he hadn’t learned fast enough. All the other children already disliked him because he was strange.

Needless to say, he'd jumped ship as soon as he'd turned eighteen and went to the big city, where you could buy decent-looking wigs and dresses without anyone looking too much askance at you. He might’ve been a freak, but freaks were so common in the city that it was far stranger to be normal. So what if the skinny little male nurse liked to wear drag at the clubs?

He'd made friends in college, people who liked him because he was smart and cheerful and fun, if a little nervous. He and Wiggins got along like a house on fire, and it was Wiggins’ fashion-conscious mind that had really given Pleakley’s clothes a kick in the ass. The awkward, school-girlish clothes he’d owned were swapped out for a few outfits that made him look absolutely gorgeous, and his friend’s steady hand proved invaluable for polishing his makeup. College was fun, though mostly for the nights with friends out in the city, young and anonymous and beautiful. School days were challenging, but he enjoyed nursing and loved his patients.

At first the drag was a weekend and evening thing, something he did because it was comfortable and he looked really good all dressed up. He could let his guard down, be who he felt like he was, someone he liked, when he was in his clothes.

One night after work, he took off his coat and stepped into his apartment, tired but satisfied with himself after a long day. As he threw his keys on the foyer table, he looked up in the mirror and gasped at the person he saw there.

He was not that sad, scrawny little man, with the weird two-tone hair and the dark circles under his eyes. That wasn’t who he was on the inside--inside, he was gorgeous, a creature of beauty and joy, with a lot of love to give. Not this pitiful, exhausted, wretched-looking man with no color, no magic about him. Pleakley didn’t feel tired and worn-out and miserable, the way this man looked.

No.

Pleakley had scowled at that reflection, that unkind caricature. He was wearing this person like an ugly suit, and he was way too beautiful and brilliant to wear an ugly suit for the rest of his life.

He went into his room with a set of trash bags and stuffed all his men’s clothes into them. All of them, even underwear, even the sweaters his mother had knitted him. All of it, into the bags and down to the thrift store. He took his credit card and bought and entire wardrobe--a stupid thing for a man with student loans to do, but he did it. And when he looked at himself in the mirror later, with his long red wig in a French twist and his makeup perfect and his pencil skirt and no men’s clothes to retreat into, he’d smiled. He never felt all that sad in his real clothes, just in the male ones.

Not everyone was as pleased as he was. It had caused something of a stir, when he'd made the transition. He didn’t breathe a word of it to his mother, and she was still in the dark to this day. He'd had to explain himself more than a little, and thank god he was out of nursing school by then, because it would've been awful. He'd had to quit at the clinic he was working in anyway, because the others just couldn't get used to the change.

Part of the problem was that he was just a cross-dresser. He was very comfortable being male. He felt male, was happy being a man--he'd only ever envied women their pumps, not their bodies. It was just that he looked better, felt better, happy and beautiful and competent in women's clothing. He didn’t want to live an unhappy life, wearing the ugly suit. Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t see a psychologist about it, but...well, he’d taken all the steps he wanted to. This was the most comfortable he’d ever been, and he didn’t need someone telling him he should be one way or another. He’d had enough of that. 

But people really did want you to be one way or another. Pleakley had been surprised by how very easily people tended to assume he was a woman. Sure, he wasn't exactly the poster boy for modern masculinity, but surely his voice would tip them off? His Adam's apple? The fact that he was flat-chested?

But no. No one noticed it. Pleakley found himself encouraging it, actually...it harmed no one, and it wasn't like people we demanding his ID all the time to check his sex. It made it easier, to be thought of as a woman in women's clothing instead of a man living in drag. While he was very much a man, he wasn’t so concerned about his gender that he felt the need to correct people. It didn’t bother him at all to be thought of as a woman--it was a testament to the power and perfection of his beauty. Most people were put off to learn that he was male, as if he were doing this for some sexual reason and not because it was beautiful and natural. He learned not to tell.

So he found himself living as a full-time cross-dresser with a nursing degree and no job. What was he to do? What could he do now?

In a fit of madness, he'd applied for a job at Disney high. He didn’t tell them that he was a man, though he knew he should’ve. They’d never asked for a photo ID or anything, just a resume and a list of references. He’d put down a couple of people he knew would be discreet, or who didn’t know better. Women got more jobs in education anyway, and there was nothing wrong in a little falsehood over something so harmless, right?

He never wanted them to think he was some kind of pervert or freak. He loved children, he always had, except when he’d been one. He would never endanger a child, never do anything to harm one. But some people had thought he was dirty for being the way he was. He had to keep it all quiet. 

Then, the ultimate panic, getting the call back from the high school. They hadn’t rejected him--oh no. They’d done something much worse.

They’d hired him.

For a few days he’d been at a loss. Oh, he was thrilled to have the job, but would it work out? He was taking a ridiculous risk. What if they found out? What if they fired him? Sued him? Had him put on sexual predator lists? He was such an idiot. This couldn’t possibly end well...

He started about three weeks after his hiring, and to his endless shock everything was fine. The children were wonderful, and they were all really quite healthy. They liked him, and the teachers were just delightful. He’d made several friends in the first few days and had been welcomed with open arms. At first he’d been worried about Gene and Mushu and their obvious appreciation of him--but they were sweet men, and didn’t push their attentions too hard or far enough to notice his ‘little secret.’

With every passing day he found himself more and more comfortable at Walt Disney High. He was very well-liked, even respected, and treated with dignity and friendship. It was wonderful. 

He was a little lonely and he hated when his mother called him, but overall he was almost blissfully happy. He worked hard at it. He didn’t want to be unhappy, so he did everything he could to be cheerful and friendly. Making other people happy made his world better, because there were then fewer unhappy people in it--and that served to make him happier, too. It was a good cycle and he threw himself into the flow as much as he could.

Time went by, and one thing he discovered is that you can take the boy out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy. And when that boy is alone, and lonely, and young and resourceful, he can find ways of getting what he needs, even out in the middle of Nowhere. For Pleakley, it was a Donna Summers album, a pair of high heels from the Goodwill, and an old beefcake magazine. It was hopelessly out of date, but he was a farm boy, and on the farm you made do with what you had. That magazine had shaped a great deal of young Pleakley’s sexual appetite; one set of drawings in particular.

His favorites had always been the leather boys. The bad ones, the ones that posed on motorcycles and smoked cigarettes. There was something about bad boys, something wild and romantic and sexy about them--Tom of Finland had it completely down. 

Pleakley and Wiggins had talked about those old magazines and those wonderful boys years later. Wiggins liked his men mean, even a little cruel. Not Pleakley. He liked his rough, salty brutes with hearts of solid gold. He liked the toughness and the muscles and the rebelliousness of them, but he loved their playful smiles and the little hints of tenderness and real affection that you could see, every now and then.

He had his heart set on a man like that, and had done ever since he’d first seen them in those racy drawings. He knew, intellectually, that such a man was a fantasy, that he’d never find him in real life. 

But Pleakley had found him, practically had him fall into his lap, and was now living with him. And he wasn’t just one of his magazine bad boys, oh no. He was the real deal, and so much better than Pleakley could’ve imagined: a big, broad, tough, strong, rough-and-tumble gorgeous brute with a 310 IQ and a hot-as-hell, bone-melting, quiver-inducing Russian-accented voice.

And he was divorced, and straight.

Goody. The unfairness of it made him want to spit.

Pleakley had known real fear before that moment of realization on their sofa. You didn't have a life like his without dealing with a good share of hate and cruelty. What surprised him about this time was that no threat, not even disgust, ever came from Jumba. The man wasn't even a little angry, but Pleakley had been terrified nevertheless. He didn’t care about getting beaten up--he’d known even then that Jumba wouldn’t hurt him--but hadn't wanted to disappoint the man. He'd liked Jumba a lot, much more than just because he was perfect for Pleakley. He was also just a wonderful friend and Pleakley didn't want to lose someone who had become so dear to him. 

Pleakley had been almost delirious with relief when the other man told him that it wasn’t a problem. They continued on as they had, and though it was awkward in the first few days, it became so much better as time went on. Their friendship deepened, intensified--soon they were inseparable. Pleakley had never had such a close relationship with anyone, not even Wiggins. 

At first he was certain that Jumba was a late bloomer--he couldn’t have been all that happy with his wife if he were divorced and living in the gay neighborhood, now could he? But alas, it was an innocent mistake; Jumba had very much thought him a woman and it had been a cultural miscommunication that accounted for their apartment’s location.

And then there was their completely bizarre domestic charade. To explain their already well-established housing situation, they decided that the best solution was simply to let people assume that they were a heteronormative couple. It killed about a dozen birds with one stone, the least of all being affordable, comfortable living arrangements, companionship (though only one of them admitted that that was a factor), taking the heat of Gene and Mushu's attentions off of Pleakley, and making people think that Dr. Jookiba must be harmless, since Nurse Pleakley wouldn't stand for anything else. 

Having Jumba as his ‘boyfriend’ was another one that made him wonder, well, what if Pleakley was right at first about Jumba batting for his team? Because it was certainly extremely odd that a man like Jumba would be willing to pretend to be his boyfriend, knowing as he did about Pleakley’s secret.

But that one was easily explained, too, to his disappointment. Pleakley was Jumba's only real friend in this country, far and away the one that Jumba trusted most--even enough to show Pleakley his little monsters. Jumba wasn't willing to let Pleakley's secret be discovered, because he didn't want to lose a friend. And a paying roommate, what was more. Jumba was sufficiently confident in his masculinity and his sexuality that it never made him uncomfortable to escort Pleakley around.

So Pleakley packed up his heart and wore his happy smile, because the longer he wore it, the more real it felt. If he was ever sad, he had about a thousand productive, cheerful things to do. Besides, there was really nothing to complain about! He had health, youth, beauty, talent, and luck. He should be proud and thankful, and after all it was very touching and wonderful to have the friendship and trust of such a man as Jumba. So what if he didn't have the man's love, and so what if Pleakley's whole heart had been firmly held in that man's hand for years, now? He wasn't the first man to fall in love with the unattainable, after all, and it was silly to throw all his happiness down the drain because he didn't have every last part of the other man. Big whoop.

When he woke up at night with tears on his pillow and his heart tattered in his chest, he flipped the pillow over and made a note to stitch himself back together in the morning.

And all of that was why it was so damn strange, what was happening now. This whole thing with Wiggins, and Jumba being a jerk to him, and scowling at Pleakley's clothes. He was jealous, sure, that was really obvious. But what exactly was he jealous of? Pleakley's attention? Well, he had that all the damn time, really. His affection? That, too, and he made it perfectly obvious--what did he think those kisses on his cheek and all those little everyday touches were about? 

For a moment there, Pleakley had been terribly excited. Jealous! Jumba was jealous! He had to want him, if he were this jealous of him, because there was no way he would get so angry about something as small as Pleakley and Wiggins going out together. He was angry that Pleakley was on another man’s arm, so he must want him all to himself! He didn’t like that Pleakley was dressing up, because he thought that Pleakley was dressing for Wiggins--by his own admission, Pleakley looked sexy. 

It was wonderful. At last, a nice girl was going to finish first! No matter what he said about only liking dark, dangerous, crazy women, Jumba had found himself enamored of a nice, sweet-tempered, bubbly, funny man! His feelings were returned, and Jumba was only discovering it now as he processed it as anger, anger being something he was so much more familiar with than love! 

And then that rug had been yanked out from underneath him. Actually, no, Jumba just wanted him to cling on his arm and look good so that he could smear it in the face of an old opponent.

He hated his ‘boyfriend’ so much, sometimes.

Well, there was a silver lining to this: Jumba was jealous, period, whether he wanted Pleakley heart and soul or not. He was jealous of another man having Pleakley’s attention and company and that was encouraging, even if the man wasn’t and apparently would never really want him for himself.

He was raised on a farm. You learned to work with what you had.

So here they were, and didn’t they look good! Pleakley leaned against the doorframe of their room, looking out at Jumba standing in the hallway. Mm, he looked good enough to eat!

Pleakley had pressed Jumba’s shirt and coat--one of the few tops the man owned that actually fit his generous body. Jumba seemed to be permanently stuck thinking he was about two sizes smaller than he was. Pleakley wished he wouldn’t dress like that, because it made him look fat, which simply wasn’t true. Oh, he was very large, and had a wonderful softness to him, but he’d actually lifted Pleakley off the ground once or twice! His size was based on muscle. He was so very, very strong, and Pleakley wished he’d wear clothing to show off that size and strength to an advantage, not downplay it.

Pleakley was wearing his favorite purple cocktail dress, and did a little twirl in the doorway. “Well? Tell me I’m not gorgeous!”

Jumba frowned. “What? Little one is not wearing red dress?”

“Are you nuts?” Pleakley asked, rolling his eyes. “I’d never wear that thing to a work function!”

“Ah, but you will wear it out with skinny man and not care about not looking like professional?” Jumba asked, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“If you don’t drop it, I’ll make Wiggins be my date and you can do try your luck, alone and dateless, with the women in the conference and face your little enemy alone,” Pleakley sniffed. 

“Fine, fine. Dress is good. Can we be going now?”

“All right, Mr. Impatient, let me lock up.”

They rode the elevator down, Pleakley once more putting his arm in Jumba’s. It felt natural there, their bodies fitting together well. That was usually how they stood and walked. Pleakley loved it, had loved it ever since the first time Jumba bent his arm and offered Pleakley his elbow. It was weird, a little old-fashioned and very romantic, to walk around like that. He’d taken Wiggins’ arm out of habit today and it had felt so wrong, his small hand free and chilly, not pressed or cradled against the warm, bulky muscles he was used to.

"So what does your old friend look like?" Pleakley asked. "I want to make sure I'm sufficiently simpering and adoring when he sees us."

Jumba snorted. "Is not a friend, little one. Tried to kill me once!"

"What?" Pleakley cried, all humor gone. "Oh my God! We should get the police! We can't let him try to murder you again!"

"Be calm. Will not try anything with so many witnesses...is coward like that. He is dwarf, little tiny man, tinier than your skinny friend, even. Always angry. Squeaky voice, little German accent, maybe. Cannot miss him, so tiny and always dressing in red and white."

"What's his name?"

"Jacques Von Hamsterviel," Jumba's voice was low and dark. Between that tone and the fact that this man had tried to kill Jumba, Pleakley was about ready to hate this Hamsterviel character.

"Please, let's just call someone to arrest him?" Pleakley whined. "I don't want him to kill you!"

Jumba looked at him with a warm, amused smile. "Aww, poor scared little one," he murmured, patting Pleakley's hand in his arm. "Tiny little Hamsterwheel will not be able to touch me here. Little one worries too much. You will see. Will be fine."

Pleakley nibbled his lip, tense and fearful. Jumba caught the gesture and snapped his fingers. 

"Reminds me. Heard you do thing for skinny man, putting lipstick on collar. Do for me? Is little details that make illusion good."

Pleakley felt his cheeks turn red. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, willing to do for skinny man but not me?" Jumba asked, frowning. 

"It's not--! I can't just smear my lipstick on your collar! It won't look real!"

"Not wanting to kiss? Have done it many times."

"Not your neck! I'd have to, I mean, I'd have to be all over you!" 

"Was all over skinny man, then."

Damn! He couldn't believe this! First of all, Jumba was such an eavesdropper, that jerk. And once again he was jealous, and of Pleakley's kisses, or at least the implication of them. Not because they were Pleakley’s kisses, oh no. But because Pleakley was pretty and he wanted to look like he had a pretty woman pawing at him.

Which he did, sort of. 

What had done? Why was he being tortured? It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t just say ‘no.’ Well, he could, but he didn’t want to. He knew he shouldn’t, but for heaven’s sake...

Ugh. Well, at least he was going to enjoy it.

"Fine," Pleakley grumbled, blowing up his bangs. "But it's going to look convincing, so you're going to have to lump the process, got it?"

"Oh? Ha. Have had worse than few little kisses before.”

‘Few’ ‘little’ kisses? Oh no, hell no. Time to show him what happened when he played with fire. Pleakley’s plan of action was only half-formed, but he was going to wring this opportunity dry.

Pleakley pulled him out of the elevator and dragged him along into an empty hallway on the conference level. He looked left and right, checking to see that they were mostly out of sight, nodding to himself. 

He looked up at Jumba and nibbled his lip again as the wind dropped out of his sails. Gosh, he was so handsome, so smug and smirking and...just...perfect. He was too nervous! He couldn’t! Not his friend, not this man of whom he was so hopeless enamored!

“I need a drink,” Pleakley whimpered. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just...latch onto the man and start kissing him!

“Oh, poor little one, too scared? Thought you liked kissing men,” Jumba teased. And against all odds, it lit a fire under him. Smug bastard! 

Well, it didn’t mean anything to Jumba, so Pleakley wasn’t going to let it mean anything to him, either!

"Come here," Pleakley whispered, grabbing his lapels. Okay, deep breath, here goes nothing! 

Maybe Jumba hadn't been expecting to be kissed on the mouth, but that was what he got. He rolled with it very well, completing the charade by wrapping both big, warm arms around his waist. Pleakley did his best not to enjoy it, which was rather difficult because, well, he was in love with this man. And he was warm and big and not pushing him away or throwing one of those huge fists at him, as he probably deserved. 

Pleakley was only kissing him for authenticity, anyway, because a precisely placed kiss that perfectly overlapped on the collar, with no further evidence of romantic touching otherwise, was a sterile and unconvincing illusion, and Pleakley was all about living illusions. 

He'd kiss him like he meant it, but it didn’t mean anything. Not a single thing.

Pleakley broke the kiss and tried not to gasp, instead kissing his cheek and down his jaw. Was he over-acting? Maybe a little. Hard to tell. But authenticity, that was the key. 

He moved his grip on Jumba to his back from his chest, fisting both hands in the back of his coat. He could hear Jumba breathing heavily, and it made his stomach dip. He could taste the man's pulse under his lips. He tasted wonderful.

Pleakley kissed down his neck, one hand sliding up to push his fingers into the thin, strange-colored hair of the other man. He traced a finger around the shell of his ear, running his hand down to cup his jaw. Maybe a little too much? Maybe he should stop, now.

He kissed Jumba's neck firmly, catching a little fabric under his lip. He nearly growled--damn it, the shirt was in the way! This was the only chance he'd ever have to kiss this man and he wanted to kiss his blasted skin!

He felt the rumble of the man's voice in his throat against his mouth before he heard his words. His voice was so deep, so dark and low, with that unbearable accent that drove him wild...

"Little one..."

Pleakley leapt back. Oh God! Jesus! What was wrong with him? 

"Got it!" he cried. He turned away from him, lifting one hand up to push a lock of hair of his ear and shield his visible eye. "It's fine! Looks good!"

Jumba cleared his throat. "G-Good. Will be convincing, then!"

Pleakley let out a hysterical little laugh. "Well yeah! Because it was! Um, I'm gonna clean up and then we'll go in, yeah? Yeah! Okay, I'll be right back!" He ran all the way to the ladies' room, trying to look like he wasn't fleeing in terror.

He was an idiot. Oh, he was so stupid. What a fool, what a pathetic, moronic creature he was.

\--

When Pleakley came back, his makeup was suspiciously fresh. Jumba had an intuition that it had been cried off with great speed and reapplied within about three minutes. He frowned at that thought. He hadn’t wanted to make Pleakley cry. 

He'd taken the opportunity to quickly run a wet paper towel over his face a little, too. He didn't want to undo those hard-won lipstick prints, but his skin had been burning from where Pleakley's mouth had touched him. He needed to regroup. 

That was a serious problem, that he needed to regroup, after kissing Pleakley. Pleakley was a man, though he didn't look like one, and Jumba liked real women. Really, really, real women. Breasts and hips and legs like only a woman could have.

Not...Pleakley. No matter how beautiful he could make himself, no matter how good his various attributes looked when he was at the top of his game. He did not like him. He did not...

Ugh. He'd always thought he was a much better liar, but he couldn’t even convince himself that he didn’t like Pleakley. His body liked Pleakley, liked him very, very much, at the moment. And the rest of him liked Pleakley far more than he should, when they were just living their day-to-day life together.

Damn it. He was too old and too scarred and too smart for this kind of thing. At his age. At this moment. And for Pleakley! Sweet, guileless, vulnerable little Pleakley, who he knew for a fact was very attracted to him. If Pleakley ever set his heart on him, their friendship and housing situation and working relationship was over, because he’d break the nurse’s heart in about four seconds flat, just by being himself. He was not a good man for his little one. He was the worst possible man for Pleakley.

Of course, his heretofore unknown jealous streak seemed to say something different about that--and he could be honest, just to himself, right now. Because that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? Jealousy, of a stranger, or any other man, having Pleakley’s attention.

His mother had raised a fool. What the hell was he going to do?

His brain was spinning, screaming in panic in the background. On the surface, he stayed cool, as icy and in-control as possible. When his date stepped out of the bathroom, he offered his arm to Pleakley. Pleakley took it with an admirable display of poise. Wordlessly, they walked into the conference room.

They mingled with the others for a few moments. It was always interesting to see how Pleakley blossomed when he was around others. Jumba was an introvert's introvert, but little Pleakley could make a roomful of people fall in love with him in ten minutes. Everyone liked Pleakley, because, well, it was Pleakley, and he'd be hard-passed to find anyone who hadn't had a gloomy day made sunny by the nurse.

In a few seconds, neither of them showed any psychological sign of the horribly delightful scene in the hallway. Every now and then he'd catch someone looking at his neck, and he had to smirk a little. Well, that was working, at least. Jumba knew the whatever-it-was that they'd unleashed in the hallway was lurking down in the undercurrent of the evening and that it would bite him later, but for now there was nothing to do but let Pleakley work his magic and keep an eye out of Hamsterviel.

There. There was a ripple in the crowd, people shifting out of the way, either due to force of personality or actual shoving, in a definite line, coming in his direction. 

He took Pleakley's hand and tucked it into his arm. Pleakley looked up from his conversation with Mr. Sebastian with a worried look and Jumba nodded. 

Pleakley excused them and leaned close. "Should we get the police?"

Tch. Always the police with Pleakley. As if Jumba wasn't himself a criminal, even if only his old country! "Nyet. Please to look in love."

"Vampy in love or normal in love?" Pleakley asked.

"Little one cannot do vampy."

"Can too!"

"Not to be testing it out here, Pleakley. Please to be in love." Hmm, that was probably a little thick. Easy to take that in a lot of ways.

“Okay, all right,” Pleakley murmured, clinging a little closer just in time for Hamsterviel to burst between two people and spot them.

“YOU!” cried the diminutive man. “You ignorant fool! You stupid half-crazy crazy man! You--”

“Hello, Jacques, has been long time,” Jumba replied, smirking a little. Jacques looked like he was about to spit, or maybe kick Jumba in the shin.

“You dare to come and show your face here?! You arrogant pig-headed idiot! I will tear you apart! I will destroy you, you--”

Pleakley’s hand pressed against Jumba’s chest, as he pushed himself closer. “Jumba, sweetheart? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

It was obvious that Pleakley wasn’t bowled over with enthusiasm to meet the other doctor, but he was smiling brightly and putting on a great appearance of actually wanting to meet this person. Unfortunately, Jumba doubted that even Pleakley at his sunniest could put a dent in the perpetual unpleasantness of Dr. Hamsterviel. Really, he’d wanted Pleakley to be there to enrage his old foe even further--nothing was more appalling than to see one’s enemies happy, successful, and obviously fawned-on by sexually attractive persons.

“Who is this?” asked the smaller man, irate that his confrontation had been interrupted. 

Jumba smirked at him. “Wendy Pleakley, this is Jacques Von Hamsterwheel.”

Hamsterviel’s face twisted in epileptic fury. “HAMSTERVIEL! HAMSTERVIEL!” he screeched, causing a slight hush in the surrounding crowd from the force of his cry.

“Is my accent, sorry,” Jumba grinned. “Wendy, he is scientist of small importance in tiny field,” he added, able to hide the glee he felt as the other scientist began to tremble with rage. “Jacques, this is my friend, Wendy Pleakley.”

Hamsterviel, through his anger, had obviously done some quick calculations, accounting for the unknown beauty draping herself over his opponent and correlating Pleakley’s lipstick and the marks on his neck.

“Oh, you are Jumba’s girlfriend, hmmm? I didn’t realize Mrs. Jookiba let him run around with other women...”

Pleakley frowned at him. “I--”

“She is going to be new Mrs. Jookiba, Hamsterwheel--”

“HAMSTERVIEL!”

“--so do not try to play silly trick.”

“You owe me my experiments!”

“Your experiments? Ha! I owe you nothing! Brain power and ideas were all mine! All you gave was money and then sent me to prison!”

Pleakley’s hand tightened on his chest and Jumba put his own hand over it. “Besides,” he added, “making scene in front of lady? Thought you were better than this.”

Hamsterviel was shaking openly. “I will have my revenge! We will settle this before we are done here and you will PAY!”

“Embarrassing,” Jumba sighed, shaking his head. 

“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but can I have a minute or two alone with you?” Pleakley asked. He looked at Jacques with a smile. “Excuse us, Dr. Hamsterviel, we just need a few seconds, we’ll be right back, okay? All right.”

Pleakley tugged him away, glancing left and right and plunging them both into a crowd. “And now is when we make our getaway.”

“Getaway?” Jumba echoed. “No! Do not run from enemies!”

“We’re not running, we’re walking! I am not going to watch you and that horrible little creature have your little cat-fight, Jumba!”

“What is he going to be thinking?! I am not coward!”

Pleakley spun on his heel and stopped Jumba up short, one finger pointed in his face. “Listen to me, Jumba Jookiba,” he hissed, his exposed eye narrowed in anger and concern. “That little monster could really be dangerous and you’ve been standing there making fun of him and I don’t want to see anything bad happen! I just get a feeling, intuition or something, but I don’t care if he thinks you’re a coward, as long as you’re safe and alive. He could kidnap you! He could torture you! He could do all kinds of terrible--”

Jumba slung an arm around Pleakley, patting his shoulder. “Little one is making huge fuss! Can handle tiny Hamsterviel. Is no problem.”

“I am not making a huge fuss!” Pleakley insisted, all that righteous anger gone. In its place was mere nervousness and a plaintive tone that Jumba, to his shame, was quite soft against. “It’s just the right amount of fuss! Please! Let’s just leave it alone!”

Jumba huffed out an annoyed breath, grumbling. “Ergh--fine. Little one is embarrassing me.”

“I don’t care,” Pleakley replied with evident relief. After a moment’s thought, he slapped Jumba’s chest. “And you, you jerkbag! You just wanted me to stand there and look sexy! I’m just an object to you!”

“Is big lie!” Jumba protested, grinning. “You are not just object. You can move!”

Pleakley slapped his chest again. “You big mean--ugh! Endangering yourself and using me like a toy! Some boyfriend you are!”

“Am perfectly good boyfriend...little one is just wanting to be angry.” 

“I am not,” Pleakley replied, pulling a handkerchief out of his clutch and licking it. “Now come here. All that lipstick on you makes me look like I’m trampy.”

He didn’t mention that, well, it was an accurate representation of an actual event, and just let Pleakley wipe it off.

\--

The delegation from Walt Disney Private School had split up, instead of forming a cluster. On the one hand, that did mean that they didn't create a large, darkened, chilly pocket of the room and alienate everyone.

On the other hand, that meant that Zazu was having trouble keeping track of them all. It was necessity that he be here, of course, but he wasn't even slightly pleased about it.

From the instant he'd stepped in the room, he'd spotted Scar. The man must have a sixth sense about being seen, for he immediately turned and pinned Zazu with an acid-green stare and an unbearably wicked smirk. Zazu had only scarcely managed to look away, and when he looked back seconds later, the man was nowhere to be seen. 

He felt like he must be just over his shoulder, just out of his line of sight. He was being hunted, stalked like a lion's quarry by that prowling figure in Italian leather shoes. He kept close to the others; Sebastian was willing to be conversational, and Zazu could at least stand with the furiously smoking Monsieur Lumiere and the suspiciously calm-looking Professor Cogsworth, but it did nothing to relieve his anxiety.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, his body tensed. What was he even going to do? It wasn’t as if he could just run screaming if the other man began to talk to him. Scar didn’t even like him all that much--it didn’t make sense for him to be pursuing him at all. He was probably being paranoid.

And yet. Here he was, halfway to panicking over it.

He sipped his glass of water and watching the conference move and flow around him. He knew that he should be making connections, but he did not recognize anyone here. And besides, advancing his career in education was not something he was particularly interested in. His next move would be to devote more time to the blog and the consulting job, when that time came. He really only had one foot in the world of education at any given time. 

He really was a poor teacher, he thought to himself. Inattentive and only very slightly devoted to his students. Perhaps the time had come to move on.

In the middle of such thoughts, he found himself standing rather alone. Glancing about, he caught sight of someone just behind him and jumped, whirling around.

Scar. Naturally. The other man took a step closer to him and Zazu backed up, unintentionally nearing one of the walls of the room.

“Well, well. This is a pleasant surprise,” Scar murmured, smirking at him. How was it possible that he never spoke in any register above a murmur or a purr? Surely he must’ve shouted at least once before, or even used an ordinary speaking voice. He was a teacher. Didn’t he have to project on occasion?

Zazu was trying to distract himself, and when one was dealing with Scar, that was a dangerous thing to do. His posture had automatically snapped tense in his hasty about-face, and now he lifted his chin, attempting to appear proud and cool-headed. “Good evening. It has been some time. How is your brother?”

“I’m certain you know more about his well-being than I,” Scar replied. “But how are you, Zazu? I’m sure I haven’t seen you in such a long while. You’ve not been hiding from me, have you?”

“Nonsense,” Zazu said darkly. “I have been terribly busy. In fact, I really must get back to--”

Scar took another step closer and Zazu’s back hit the wall. Oh, bloody hell.

Scar gave him a toothy grin that very deliberately did nothing to comfort him. In fact, he looked a bit like he wanted to bite his quarry.

What an extremely distracting thought that was. For his own good, he mustn’t dwell on it.

"I'm sure you can spare just a few moments for me, can't you?"

Again! There was no cause to murmur, in a room this loud. To compensate, Scar leaned closer, those white, slightly pointed teeth pressing nearer. Zazu craned his neck away a bit. 

Oh dear. There was something about this man, a definite aura that he possessed that played merry hell with his brain. He felt it in his bones; Scar must be avoided. There was something off about him, something Zazu couldn't quite place--something dark and sharp and ravenously hungry. It was wrong, alarming.

Unfortunately, it was also incredibly, unspeakably exciting.

In a is-he-going-to-kiss-me-or-just-rip-my-throat-out sort of way, yes, but that was an alarming sort of excitement nevertheless. 

"W-What is it you want?" he asked, the stammer coming out unbidden. It was such an appalling display of weakness and he cursed himself for it. Blood in the water was the last thing he needed now.

"Mmm, the list goes on and on," Scar drawled, giving Zazu a blatant up-and-down leer.

“D-Don’t look at me like that!” Zazu stammered, unable to move his gaze from the green eyes a few inches away from him. He didn’t want to stare, to get lost in that gaze, but he couldn’t help it! There was nowhere else to look, and even if he could, the last thing he wanted to do was to turn his head and expose his neck to Scar. It was too submissive by half!

“Like what?” Playing with him, teasing him. Tormenting him. Horrible man. Bad, wicked, terrible man.

Damn this family. There was something in their blasted genes that just got to him.

“Y-You look as if you’re g-going to eat me,” Zazu said, desperately grasping for a firm tone.

Scar’s smile grew still more twisted and he leaned even closer. Oh no, oh goodness gracious, he wasn’t going to, not here, not in public, was he?

“I admit that the thought has crossed my mind more than once,” Scar purred, as Zazu tried to press himself into the wall. Too close! Too close! Where on Earth were his coworkers when he needed them?

“HAMSTERVIEL! HAMSTERVIEL!” came a shout from not too far away. The strangeness of the word and the accent broke the spell, and Zazu blinked, shifting a bit to the side to see around Scar. 

“What on earth--”

“Pray don’t allow yourself to become distracted,” Scar said, sliding over to block him in once more. 

Zazu frowned. No. Enough. “I apologize, but I’m afraid I need to go,” he said. Zazu hastily slipped from between Scar and the wall, pausing only for a moment to bob his head and rush into the thick of the crowd of strangers.

He mustn’t let himself get cornered like that. That way lay madness.

\--

“Hey, Phil,” Terk said, turning to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, toots?” He hated this kind of hoity-toity shindig, but at least the food was decent. They’d come in, hob-nobbed for about two minutes, and hung towards the back of their group with a mound of appetizers piled up on a tiny plate.

“I wanna ask you something.”

“Go for it, babe. If you got a question, I got an answer.”

She smiled. “Don’t go making fun of me about it, all right?”

Phil rolled his eyes, rolling the cigar around to the other side of his mouth. “Listen, babe, if you don’t want me to laugh, don’t tell me something funny.”

“Fair enough,” Terk shrugged. She thought for a moment, as he took out his cigar and popped another pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth. “Do you love me?”

Phil’s eyes crossed and he choked on the appetizer. He pounded himself on the stomach, managing the cough up the snack onto the floor. 

“Oh, c’mon, man, gross...” Terk moaned, shoving a cocktail napkin at him. He hastily cleaned it up and tossed it into a potted plant. “Seriously though. Do you?”

Shit. Oh, shit. He’d hoped this day would never come. He was terrible at talking about this kind of thing. It complicated everything. He sort of loved her, kind of, but what he felt he felt a lot of! How could he say that? What did she want to hear? He had always appreciated how easy she was to understand, and now she whipped this kind of thing out on him?

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Babe, listen, Terk, you know I...we have a lot of fun together, and I like ya a lot! I mean, I’m pretty crazy about ya, you’re a stellar lady and all...”

Terk wasn’t looking impressed. “So...how about a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’? I ain’t gonna get mad, I just wanna know.”

“Maybe?”

She nodded, shrugging her shoulders a little. “Mm. All right, cool.”

“...we all right?”

“Yeah, man, it’s fine.” He had grave suspicions that it might not be fine. He didn’t want things to be not-fine. 

“You sure?”

“Yes, Phil, Jesus, relax. I already told you, I ain’t mad. I just wanted to know.”

They stood silently for a moment or two, looking around them. He had to say something. She was mad, he just knew it. Damn it. Damn it! 

“Listen, Terk--”

She elbowed him in the arm, smiling. “C’mon, don’t make it all awkward and intense. Fuck it, dude, let’s go climbing.” She dumped the little plate of appetizers in the potted plant and started walking out of the conference room.

He hurried after her, glad of the change in venue but fearful about spending time with her. Crap. There went their perfect relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this one, folks. It kind of sucks and I'm not at all confident about it but I've been working on it all week and I needed to get it out so that we could move on with our lives. 
> 
> Thanks to Blaze, and I'm sorry that I've bent everything. It's still awesome, though, so I'm confident that my little dent will be unnoticed in the long run. The Terk-Phil conundrum is a reference to this: http://i53.tinypic.com/2rpfm1v.jpg Check it out, it is most amusing.


	7. Delayed Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumba's a bit whipped. Scar is a bit peeved. Cogsworth is completely flabbergasted. This can only lead to fun.

The next morning, Cogsworth was surprised by the fact that he didn’t utterly hate himself.

By all accounts, he really should’ve, because it was complete madness to let Lumiere that close to him. He hadn’t been thinking clearly and had allowed desperation, not reason, to make a decision for him. He had given the man an opening, and that would lead to Lumiere getting Ideas.

But as he had his morning tea, he found that he felt nothing but a general sense of goodwill, compounded by relief. He was refreshed entirely by his deep, exhausted, dreamless sleep the night before and the extremely thorough massage Lumiere had provided, and he couldn’t complain even a bit about his state. He felt better than he had in years. Who cared if the other man was laughing at him? 

He should be used to it by now.

No, he wasn’t going to let that bring him down. He’d come out the better of that little debacle and he was not going to regret it--not now, at least. He likely would soon enough. For now, he was determined to get along well.

Panels, today. He smiled, watching as the others trickled into the hotel restaurant in pairs and groups.

Cogsworth did a quick headcount. All present and accounted for.

Time to get some real work done.

\--

They were on their way to lunch and all was right with the universe. While Hamsterviel hadn’t actually be defeated, he was temporarily thwarted, and Pleakley had spent the night precisely where he was supposed to be: at Jumba’s side, and later in his own bed, alone and unmolested. Jumba had spent the morning dozing through the panels and Pleakley had spent it in conversation with other nurses and teachers. Now, they were going to go get a meal, and Pleakley was on his arm, talking. Jumba looked around, smirking as he caught a few envious glances from other men.

Suddenly there was a tug on his arm and he lurched a little in that direction. “What? What is problem?”

Pleakley was tugging. “Wiggins!” he called out, waving his free hand. The skinny man spotted them from across the hall and began to walk over. Pleakley glanced back at Jumba. “Time for you to apologize.”

“Whaaat?!” Jumba said, only barely keeping his voice from becoming a bellow. “I will not!”

“You will too or you’re sleeping on the sofa,” Pleakley said firmly.

“Cannot put me on couch! I will not apologize to tiny little stick!”

“You hurt his feelings and you embarrassed me! The least you could do is apologize to my friend and show him you’re not a big mean grumpy jerk all the time,” Pleakley wheedled.

“Am not jerk!”

“So apologize,” he insisted. “Wiggins! How are you? Sorry to bug you--Jumba just had something he wanted to say.”

Wiggins smiled up at him and Jumba felt his blood begin to boil. He knew Pleakley had said that this man was in love with another and had no interest in him, but there was just something about him that ground Jumba’s gears. The way he looked at Pleakley with such frank admiration. The way he called him ‘Wendy.’ Urgh.

He tightened his arm a little, feeling Pleakley’s hand in the crook of his elbow, and bared his teeth.

“Sorry,” he said tightly. “For breakfast yesterday. Was in bad mood.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, never you fear,” grinned Wiggins. “So kind of you to say something. I’m afraid I really must dash, but Wendy-love, are we on for this evening?”

“Of course! Can’t wait,” Pleakley grinned.

“Until then! I greatly appreciate the gesture, Dr. Jookiba--ta ta!” He turned and waved as he hurried off, and Jumba scowled as Pleakley blew him a kiss.

“What is tonight?” Jumba rumbled, moving towards the elevators.

“Oh, I’m just staying in his hotel room. Bit of a boys night in, you know.”

“You are sleeping together?” he asked, scowling.

“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be a lot of sleeping, but I’m staying there.” Before he could object, Pleakley turned that megawatt smile on him and patted his arm with his free hand. “Thank you for apologizing. I knew you could be a gentleman if I asked you!”

Jumba rolled his eyes, a grouchy remark at the tip of his tongue, when Pleakley stood up on tiptoe and casually pecked his lips. Taken aback, he stared at his little one for a moment before clearing his throat. “Eh. Well...da, do not ask again.”

“Grump,” Pleakley said affectionately, laying his head on Jumba’s shoulder as they waited for the elevator.

\--

Lumiere was not the happiest of men, that noontime. He was sitting in the hotel lobby with a cup of coffee, scheming.

He wasn’t what one could ever classify as a stranger to a sleepless night, but rare indeed were the sleepless nights when he had been alone in his bed. He did not relish the experience. It was not good for his looks or his health or his sangfroid.

His sangfroid had taken a severe beating last night, and he was reluctant to admit that it was well and truly his own fault. The reception had had borne a staggering resemblance to his idea of hell, in terms of cuisine, conversation, and duration. Finally going to bed at midnight had never been so rewarding.

It was unpleasant, he found, to have that man nearby and out of reach, and willfully oblivious to him.

Somehow this whole seduction had backfired on him and he wasn’t quite sure where he’d gone wrong. Moreover, he didn’t quite know how to get himself back on track. He was the seducer, not the seduced! It violated all sorts of natural laws. He wasn’t sure what Cogsworth thought he was doing, flipping the game on him like this. It wasn’t sporting!

Lumiere drank his coffee and lit a new cigarette. The time for trifling was over. He’d stood it admirably for two whole years. By all rights, he should’ve pressed for a more concrete arrangement long ago.

He sat back in his seat, sipping the smoke and staring at the ceiling. Part if the problem might have been how much he wanted it. He wasn’t exactly being subtle about shoving his way into Cogsworth’s affections and bed, and that could be tricky. Who wasn’t fascinated by a bit of coy hard-to-get? It certainly made Lumiere’s motor purr, and that was surely a significant portion of Cogsworth’s appeal. Perhaps playing aloof would do the trick--

He dismissed that almost immediately. Ridiculous. Cogsworth was a dear man but he was a bit of a coward. He’d never own up to the fact that he wanted Lumiere. He’d just sit on his hands and pretend nothing had ever happened.

Lumiere wouldn’t stand for that.

What would happen if he just hauled off and kissed him? Lumiere sat staring for a moment. Just planted one on him. Got right in amongst that stuffy English reserve and gave the man something tangible? No amount of come-hither gazes and cheeky smiling was doing the job, after all. What if he just pounced on him?

He tried heroically to tamp down on the wild grin that tried to spread over his face.

\--

“It’s beastly luck, it really is,” Shere Khan sighed, glancing at the menu.  He wanted meat--something good and fresh and bloody.  That was the tragedy of vegetarians, is that they missed out on the sheer visceral pleasure that came from sinking your teeth into the flesh of a once-living creature.  

Sacred cow be damned, he was having a steak.  

He placed the menu on the table and pretended to give an actual damn, and not the half-damn that he’d given out of amusement. He smiled faintly at his companion.  “You must be devastated, and after you pressed your suit on him so hard, too.  I feel for you, my dear, I really do.”

Scar gave him a dirty look from across the table.  “Your empathy is kind but unnecessary,” he said, by which he meant ‘go fuck yourself.’  “It’s entertainment, after all.  One likes a small amount of resistance.  At least I do.  Perhaps you prefer a less challenging game?”

Shere Khan gave him a slow, lingering up and down look.  “I’ve been known to go after the easy ones, yes.”

“Oh, let’s not talk about ‘easy.’  They make for an amusing evening--I myself make liberal use of them--but if I’m going to spend any time on something, I prefer it to be a little more...how shall I put it?  Exciting?  Engaging?  Satisfying...than my more typical dalliances.  You understand.”

Indeed he did.  ‘Satisfying,’ pah.  He’d had this man purring with pleasure too many times to count. “And you anticipate that he will satisfy?”

Scar offered one of those smirks that even Shere Khan had to admit was rather diabolical. “One way or another. If nothing more, I certainly plan to recoup my investment. In spades,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair a bit.

“Taking it out of the fellow’s hide, no doubt,” Shere Khan said thoughtfully. My, his companion could be rather delicious when he was contemplating future ruthlessness. “But then, it is a cutthroat world, isn’t it? One can’t exactly expect tenderness. It’s very nearly sleeping with the enemy, if he’s as enthralled with your brother as you claim.”

“Yes, it’s a bit beneath me, I suppose,” Scar said with something like a sigh in his tone. “But then, all’s fair.”

“In love and war, I think you mean.”

Scar gave him a look. As if he ever said anything in anyway but the way he wanted to say it. A small smirk curled his lips, and Shere Khan felt his own lips turn up in an answering expression. 

“Well, I wish you happy hunting,” Shere Khan said. “It can’t get worse, after all,” he added in an undertone.

Scar curled his lip at him. “Tact isn’t your strong suit, is it, my dear?”

“I am extremely tactful,” he replied. “And I should hardly need lectures in subtlety from a man who wears a fur-lined cloak.”

“And I need it from a man who wears an orange fur-lined smoking jacket?”

That was well-played. Shere Khan conceded the point with a lukewarm smile, and they turned their criticism off of each other. After all, there were so many more entertaining targets nearby.

That was the linchpin of their relationship, after all, hating people more than they hated each other. Best not to flip that balance.

\--

Cogsworth was going over his notes from the day with enormous satisfaction. Ha. At last, a little productivity. He’d asked some useful, intelligent questions, and got into a lively conversation with one Mr. Beaker from Jim Henson Public High School. Now there was a man who understood his plight--it was not easy, being the only obviously-sane one.

He was sitting on one of the sofas outside the conference rooms with Coach Phil and Mr. Sebastian.

“You poor, unfortunate soul,” Sebastian was drawling. The subject was Phil’s recent relationship crisis with Ms. Terk. Just when Cogsworth thought he was in the clear from romantic troubles, this sort of thing popped up. “Why don’t you just kiss the girl already?”

“Kissing isn’t the problem! She’s mad because I won’t say I’m in love. I just can’t go the distance!”

“Hmph, tale as old as time,” Cogsworth said, shaking his head. “There are other gestures you could use to imply it, you know. Flowers, chocolates, promises you don’t intend to keep...”

Both men snorted. “Might just have to try that, if I get down to my one last hope,” Phil grumbled.

“Oh, be my guest,” Cogsworth replied. He glanced up in time to see Mr. Zazu, tensed shoulders nearly around his ears, carefully perching on a chair opposite. “And how are you?” He didn’t want to lose one of the few reasonable people here to unforeseen complications.

“It’s impossible to be prepared for everything here,” Zazu said stiffly. He seemed to be glancing around quite a bit, keeping watch for something.

Cogsworth decided that he wasn’t going to deal with this any further. He stood up and dusted himself off a little. “I trust that the lot of you will be able to fend for yourselves this evening?”

Zazu nodded sharply, though Sebastian and Phil had been drawn back into their conversation--this time with Mr. Mushu interjecting with advice.

As long as they didn’t break anything and they attended their panels, Cogsworth didn’t care.

He smiled a bit and made his way over to the elevators. At last. A quiet evening to himself. Maybe he’d just stay in and order room service and read. Or perhaps do the crossword and have an early night, he thought as he rode up. Lumiere surely wouldn’t stand for such a thing--he’d want to be out on the town, work night be damned. After all, they were only in this city for another day and a half. It would appeal to the man’s adventurous side.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately doffing his jacket and loosening his tie. He went to turn the corner into the bathroom and suddenly found himself within centimeters of Lumiere.

Startled, he meant to take a step back, but found himself well-ensconced in the other man’s arms. Lumiere was smiling, leaning closer towards him.

Cogsworth felt his cheeks burn and covered his confused embarrassment with anger. “Lumiere! What on earth are you doing?!”

“I’m going to kiss you now, mon cher,” he purred, lifting a playful eyebrow when he said it.

Cogsworth stared. “What.”

Lumiere chose to demonstrate instead.

Whatever Cogsworth had been expecting hadn’t been...this. Whatever this was. It was soft, and warm, and not all that sensational--a soft, warm pressure on his lips, the closeness of the other man enough to make his eyes cross. The smoky smell of the man’s clothes and cologne, not nearly as off-putting as it should be. The feel of his hot breath against Cogsworth’s face. The arms around his body.

It was just a buss, nothing really more--at least not at first. Within a few seconds, Lumiere tilted his head and pressed in closer, parting his lips gently to fit their mouths together. At the same moment, he ran his hand up Cogsworth’s back and lightly touched his fingertips against his hair.

Cogsworth had had a game plan up until that point--it involved pushing the other man off and yelling, at great length and volume, until he either apologized or left. This agonizing little game of his was growing far, far too personal and this was edging into the realm of supreme indecency. Cogsworth simply couldn’t turn a blind eye anymore.

Then there was that little touch, tender and meaningless, and the perfectly delicious warmth of the other man, and he fell further on the slippery slope he'd started down with that stupid bloody massage. He never should've let him get so close--he should've been more wary of one weakness leading to another.

But he was a fool, and it was only expected for a fool to be foolish. All the better that he did it to his own detriment.

So instead of pushing him off, he lifted his own hands and placed them on Lumiere's back, only barely repressing a shudder as the Frenchman made a soft rumbly noise and brushed his tongue out, a tease, against Cogsworth's mouth as their lips pressed harder.

Lumiere broke the kiss first, moving the necessary millimeters so that they were no longer pressed together. Instead, his lips brushed against Cogsworth's with every syllable, a dozen smaller kisses that left him dazed with the delightful novelty of sensual touch. 

"You are going out to supper with me," Lumiere whispered, his voice huskier than normal. He must've been smoking all day.

His mouth, for once, was more immediately reasonable than his brain. "Why on earth would I do that?" he asked, getting his breath back.

Lumiere seemed to interpret that as some kind of challenge. "Stubborn donkey," he hissed, and the hands on Cogsworth's back tightened again. Somehow they were kissing again, and where the first kisses had been tentative, warm, still seeking permission, this kiss was different. The hand that had brushed his hair pushed up to cup the back of his skull, holding him in place.

Cogsworth found his hands wandering, one making a fist in Lumiere’s shirt and the other resting on the small of his back. This felt good. This felt wonderful. He’d kissed and been kissed before, but only chastely, staving off his own revulsion. He’d certainly never allowed a man this close to him before.

That repulsive little part of him, the part that the rest knew was wrong and improper, the part that had wanted another man’s attention since he was a teenager, the part that dreamed of and fantasized about and craved this man, was half mad with delight. All those vile, despicable, succulent things he denied thinking about were pouring out of his subconscious and beating down the walls of his all-too paltry resistance.

Lumiere kissed him roughly, lips soft but backed by insistent teeth. With a bittersweetly expert skill, Lumiere had his mouth open and was sliding their tongues together; the slick slide of hot, soft muscle, the long fingers in his hair, the concentration and aggravation and yes, there it was, lust, in every line of the other man’s body making Cogsworth shudder and grip the slim Frenchman harder. 

Lumiere growled, ever so softly, and withdrew, biting gently on Cogsworth’s lower lip as he went.

“Will you make me beg?” he asked, his accent startlingly thickened. Well, he wouldn’t mind trying...

Cogsworth had just enough good sense to remember why he wasn’t supposed to drag this man into bed. There was a whole score of reasons why that was a terrible, horrible idea, least of all that this was a bit of a drastic change from a life of chastity and restraint.

Oh right. Chastity and restraint. Those things he was supposed to embody so that he could be a good example. Those things that made him such an entertaining target for Lumiere.

He pulled his hands off of Lumiere and held them stiffly at his sides. “This is a little much for a joke, don’t you think?”

Lumiere stared at him. His hands fell from Cogsworth’s body and he hated himself for feeling anything like loss about it. After a moment, and in a tone that indicated that he wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly, Lumiere said, “A joke?”

“Quite,” Cogsworth said, frowning. “You know. For humor’s sake?”

Lumiere’s mouth pursed and his eyes narrowed.  He even squeezed those eyes closed for a moment, before flicking them back open with an expression of supreme annoyance.  He opened his mouth, glared, closed his mouth, glared, spun on his heel, and began to pace furiously, utterly silent.

At last he stopped still, facing Cogsworth, and held up both hands beseechingly, his expression desperate and faintly horrified.  He stood that way for a moment, drawing a hopelessly confused look from Cogsworth.

Then Lumiere threw those hands up.  “What planet have you been living on?!” he cried.  “I have done everything possible to please you and you think I am playing with you?!  What have I done that you think me so cruel?  What has happened to you that you think someone would devote so much time and effort into mocking you?”

Cogsworth was honestly surprised by this reaction.  He’d always expected Lumiere to be very blasé about being called out on this silly little game he liked to play.  

As the realization broke like a plate over his head, he felt heart rate leap.  Oh God.  He wasn’t kidding.  He hadn’t ever been kidding, or at least not for the majority of the time.  Oh no.  Oh dear heaven.  Lumiere _wanted_ him. 

He couldn’t think of anything more terrifying, to be honest.  

Cogsworth sank down.  He was spared the humiliation of having to sit on the floor by the blessed intervention of a chair pushed against the wall, but he was going down one way or another.  Unable to do anything, he focused on remembering how to breathe.  He couldn’t look at Lumiere, good God, it would give him a panic attack.

Lumiere didn’t much seem to care that he’d lost his audience’s attention.  He’d continued to ask questions, shifting into French as his frustration mounted.  He threw himself down onto his bed, sitting with his shoulders hunched and glaring.  Cogsworth glanced at him with his peripheral vision and immediately shut his eyes.  No, no.  No, no, no.  This was bad.  

It was such a damn shame that he couldn’t quite convince himself of that.  Sure, he was horrified and nervous enough to shake himself apart, but at least Lumiere hadn’t been only playing with him.  That would’ve been easier by far to deal with, but he couldn’t deny that there was one ridiculous, unrealistic part of him that was glad that he’d been earnest.  It would’ve been too cruel, to be kissed like that for a joke.

“All right,” Lumiere said, in the tone of someone who was reminding himself to take deep breaths.  “Here is what we will do.  First, I am not mocking you.  I am not playing a joke on you.  I am not laughing at you, you unbelievable, ridiculous, repressed--”  Lumiere cut himself off hastily, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes.  He lit one, took a drag, and sighed.  

Cogsworth dared a glance.  Lumiere still had a bit of a manic look around his eyes, but on the whole he looked calmer.  

“So,” the Frenchman said.  “For the record.  I do not toy with people to this extent, because I happen to have a heart, understand?  I have pursued you mostly in earnest, although I confess that the expressions you make are as amusing as they are endearing.  So yes, I laugh, but I do not do it from meanness, you paranoid, suspicious, untrusting madman.”

If Lumiere wasn’t a pot calling the kettle black, throwing about the term ‘madman’ like that!  “Charmed,” Cogsworth said, the word out of his mouth before he could remember that he was supposed to be shell-shocked.  Obviously a bit of an insult was the best restorative after a surprise like this.

“There.  If that is out of the way, we move onto the subject of our rendezvous--”

“You might recall that I did not agree to go out to dinner!”  Why was he protesting?, that little rebellious part of him howled.  This was the bloody best thing since sliced bread--better than!

Quiet, you, thought his higher mind.  

Never before had he so utterly resented that mind.

“Ah, but you did kiss me back,” Lumiere said, at last cracking a salacious smile. “I will accept no more of your very proper objections, mon cher--you desire me.”

“Th-that was hardly a reasonable test!” Cogsworth exclaimed, fidgeting to loosen his collar.  He had to be cherry red.  “You attacked me!”

Lumiere grinned as he lifted his cigarette to his lips.  “Do not be silly.  After all, I even warned you beforehand.  You could’ve just shoved me off.  You are a better kisser than I had anticipated.”

Cogsworth was pretty sure that was some type of backhanded insult, but he had bigger fish to fry, specifically pouring a bucket of water on this fire with all possible speed.  If Lumiere wanted him--oh God--that was something that needed to be stopped immediately.  

Because, and maybe it was time to admit this at least to himself, he really, really did want Lumiere, and that was very dangerous.  Those kisses had lit a fire under his horribly unsteady foundations and if his lizard brain had the chance, it would break for light again and damn all the consequences that came with simply pouncing on Lumiere.  

He could not do that. If he bit that forbidden fruit, there when his reputation, his decency, his propriety--all the things he had so carefully clung to and cultivated all his life.

“Regardless--”

“There is no ‘regardless,’ Cogsworth.  Now you are the one who is playing with me.  Come, what will a meal hurt, hm?  I will cure you of your delusions of persecution.  And we are reasonable men, after all...perhaps we can reach some sort of...arrangement.”

He was pretty certain that no one had ever said ‘arrangement’ with such a definite connotation of sex before.  Perhaps they had.  It couldn’t but be inferior to this particular incarnation, however--something about the combination of accent and smoke and the curl of his lips made the hairs stand up on Cogsworth’s neck.

“I’m not sure what you expect to gain out of this,” he said, frowning a little at Lumiere’s elegantly careless shrug.  “But you can be sure that I will not stand for any impropriety.”

“Oh, I never intended to make you stand for it, anyway,” Lumiere purred.  Cogsworth felt himself involuntarily blushing, imagining all the various ways they could pursue such a thing horizontally. “Then it is settled.”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Seven o’clock.  You will not be displeased.”  Lumiere rose and walked towards the door, stopping in front of Cogsworth’s chair as he did so.

He leaned down and, unmoved by the way Cogsworth leaned his head back until it touched the wall, lightly kissed his mouth.  “Wear something handsome for me, hmm?  I will see you soon.”

Cogsworth sat there, a little addled, once Lumiere left.  Well.  It appeared he had a date for the evening.  A date with a man.  A man who was Lumiere.  Lumiere who wanted him and wasn’t playing and wanted.  Him.

He glanced down at his hands, moderately surprised to note that they were shaking.  Oh good.  Why couldn’t he ever have the anxiety attack when he needed it?

Oh, and just in time--there was the self-hatred for letting Lumiere give him a massage. The gang’s all here.

He leaned back and tried to breath clearly, trying to think of a more polite way to say that he was deep, deep in the shit on this one.

Never mind that there was a significant portion of him that was simply delighted. Traitor.


	8. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first date, a sleepover, and a small panic attack.

Lumiere left his hotel room, clicking his heels as he went. He wasn’t ordinarily prone to such demonstrations, but if ever there were an occasion for such a display, it was now. 

He had a date! A long-desired date, at that. And perhaps a few (or not so few) kisses.

He’d been surprised. Cogsworth wasn’t all that bad a kisser; there was something to be said for the way the man just melted in his arms. Of course, that was belied by the way he was so insistently opposed to the prospect of a romantic evening, but...well, what sort of person didn’t like a little challenge? It wasn’t as if a bit of an argument, even a shouting match, had ever dampened Lumiere’s flames. His own anger only served to put a sharper edge on the pleasure of the experience. 

This would be delightful. He would select the ideal location, the proper atmosphere, the best cuisine. And if he had to steal Cogsworth’s wallet, he’d do it--this was his treat. It was going to be Romance, the proper way, with all the pleasures of civilized passion thereunto pertaining: food, music, ingenious and charming conversation, a thousand looks and touches stoking the fires of anticipation.

And if he did nothing else, he’d hammer through his friend’s thick skull the fact that he was genuinely interested, dispelling this bizarre illusion he was under. It was completely baffling to him, that Cogsworth could really think that someone would want to mock him to this cruel extremity. It explained so much, of course--no wonder that he was hesitant, shy, and even angry, when Lumiere flirted with him--but it was doing far more harm in deluding Cogsworth’s senses than it could ever do good in protecting him. 

He wouldn’t let it continue. He was going to drag his friend, kicking and screaming, if need be, out of his shell. 

And if his reward for his efforts was no more than his friend’s kiss, well, he wouldn’t raise a fuss. There was no telling where those kisses might lead, after all...

With that incredibly pleasant thought, he hurried down to the business lounge of the hotel. He needed to look up a suitable restaurant--there was so much to do, and not a moment to lose!

\--

Zazu stared unseeingly at the screen of his laptop as his news feeds flashed before him, his brain stalling out as it tried to come up with something. He needed to write. His blog demanded it. His public awaited him.

Among them, Mufasa waited for his analysis. 

And Zazu was sitting here, paralyzed over the man’s brother. 

Zazu was not a stupid man, not by anyone’s estimation. Sure, he was a bit oblivious, perhaps, but only by virtue of having other things on his mind. He might’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, but it would require a truly stupid man not to see what was going on here.

He was being played with.

Scar had no interest in him of himself. He was invested insofar as Zazu could be used for...well, call it ‘entertainment.’ That’s the politest way to put it.

Regrettably, that only meant that his rational mind, which had already known that the man was rotten to his core, was vindicated. The libido, however, was not taking any bloody notice at all.

Sure, he’d run. He’d all but sprinted out of that conference room, consigning the rest of the evening to the devil, as far as he was concerned, and locking himself in his hotel room. He’d leaned against the door, his heart hammering at his ribs. 

He was far too worked up about this. 

The day had been an exercise in avoidance. Every now and then, he’d catch a flash of the man, or what he thought might be Scar, out of the corner of his eyes, and he’d dart for a clearer space. He felt like he was being watched, although he could never identify from what direction. 

He wished he could get just the slightest bit of a view over the conference, so that he could keep himself out of harm’s way. Not that he really expected he would be harmed, precisely. He would be stared at, leered at, which would be in so many ways worse than mere physical attack.

The essential thing was that he didn’t have those smirking, heartless green eyes scalding him anymore. He knew for a fact that he could grow addicted to that burn. He was a fool if he exposed himself to it.

Only half-conscious of the motions of his fingers, he began to write. He dredged up a few colorful phrases he’d had in his mind the past few days, and worked in a good pun here and there. The news must have analysis--his distraction could not get in the way. Kicking his personal troubles into the jurisdiction of his subconscious, he pretended to focus on higher things.

He couldn’t run. Well, he could, but it would be obvious, and eventually he’d be forced to own up to it. 

He couldn’t ask him to stop. First of all, because he wouldn’t, and second of all, because that would be admitting that he was having any reaction at all to Scar’s pursuit. That would be an opening, which would mean vulnerability, which would mean attack.

He couldn’t ignore it. Oh, how he’d tried.

“Hey,” said Mr. Sebastian, looking over at Zazu as he pounded away on his keyboard. “You need a break? I’m thinking about getting something to eat.”

His fingers stiffened, pausing. Well. Safety in numbers. And he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, not wanting to be cornered as he ate alone. “Very well.” 

Just hide in the flock. He’ll never get you, if you surround yourself with others.

\--

Pleakley was putting on fresh makeup, and Jumba was sitting in the hotel room armchair, frowning. It was an uncanny reproduction of Saturday night.

“When will you be coming back?” Jumba asked, not even pretending to be reading his book. It hadn’t held his interest for days now. He was frustrated and the little novel wasn’t doing anything to alleviate that. If he had a punching bag, or better yet, a laboratory, he’d be able to work out the stress.

“Oh, I suppose around nine AM,” Pleakley replied, parting his red lips slightly as he brushed eye shadow onto his eyelids. “I don’t really know just yet. It depends on what we do. You might not see me until tomorrow afternoon!”

Jumba curled his lip. “Little one is being careful, yes? Will tell me immediately if anything is happening?”

Pleakley twisted around on the vanity chair, looking at Jumba with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Anything happening? Like what? You won’t care about us ordering room service and watching bad movies, will you?”

He shifted a little in his seat. “Little one is getting dressed up. You are going out to clubs, maybe? Do not want you to be wearing same little red dress again. People will be getting ideas.”

Pleakley gave him a mischievous look. “Jumba. Are you getting all jealous again?”

“Feh! Nonsense! Is not matter of jealousy.”

“Oh, I think it is,” he smiled, getting up from his seat. Pleakley strolled over to where Jumba sat, hips swaying from side to side. Those hips were criminal. They should be locked up. There was no reason for Pleakley to have hips that swung like that, as heavy and slowly as a pendulum. It was enormously distracting.

Pleakley nearly grinning as he perched himself lightly on Jumba’s lap, despite the scientist’s half-hearted protestations. He kicked one long, slender leg over the other, causing his skirt to ride up a little. Jumba probably shouldn’t have noticed that. At least he wasn’t staring. That was a minor victory. “You don’t have to turn into a big green-eyed monster, you know,” Pleakley teased. “You’re the only guy for me, promise.”

A promise, huh? Sealed with a kiss? He was half-expecting one, now, since it’d been made very clear that casual kisses, even on the mouth, were no longer outside their repertoire. Anything for authenticity.

‘Really?’ he thought to himself. ‘Anything?’

...well, anything once.

Good God. He was losing his mind.

“Da? So little one is not going to be sleeping with skinny man, after all?”

Pleakley rolled his eyes, waving a hand at him. “Oh, you big bully--you know what I mean! I’m sleeping OVER with him! Not sleeping WITH him! Ew, jeez, the very idea...I mean, I love Wiggins, don’t get me wrong, but it’d be like sleeping with my brother.” Jumba thought Pleakley’s shudder of revulsion was a little affected, but he let himself be comforted by it. “And he wouldn’t have me, anyway.”

“Why? What is wrong with little one?” Pleakley looked fine. Better than fine. Wiggins was setting his standards way too high, if he thought he could get Pleakley at all, much less someone better than Pleakley.

“Uh, he’s in love with someone else? Like I told you? You really aren’t good at this relationship stuff, are you? Even when it’s someone else’s relationship.” Pleakley smirked a little and leaned closer. He planted a warm, lingering, red-lipped kiss on Jumba’s cheek. Jumba blinked a bit at the sensation. Pleakley was wearing perfume. It smelled nice. He dared a glance down the line of Pleakley’s body. 

Not at all bad.

Okay, Jookiba, rein it in. This was getting out of hand. 

He was doomed.

“No, I expect we’ll be up all night talking about boys--we haven’t practiced kissing since we were kids,” Pleakley said with a cheeky smile, sliding away from Jumba. “So you should go have some fun with everybody else, huh? Maybe show them that you don’t need to have me on your arm to be your chatterbox. Sometimes I feel like I’m hauling around a bit lump of stone, y’know.”

Jumba grunted. “I speak when I want to and do not when I do not want.”

“Yeah, but you’re leaning on me pretty hard to make you socially acceptable, bub. You need to show everybody you’re not just a big, smart icicle.” Pleakley carefully applied his mascara, batting his eyelashes in the mirror and smiling. “Right! Okay, Mr. Grumpy-Pants. Have a nice evening--and only call me if it’s an emergency, got it? But if it is an emergency, don’t not call me! Don’t assume you can handle everything yourself! Because if it’s important, I’ll come right over and help out. Just don’t bother calling me if it’s something little, because I know you can just take care of those. Use your discretion, and the good kind, not the ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ kind of decision-making--”

“Pleakley. Be going now,” Jumba said, shooing his excitable roommate away with one hand. Pleakley pointed a finger at him, giving him a serious look before breaking out in a smile and skipping out the door.

\--

He had a date. 

He had a DATE.

Oh, good, excellent, the palpitations were setting in. Maybe he’d die! No one could claim he was begging off or acting cowardly if he died before anything happened! It would let him off the hook entirely! 

No. No, dying wasn’t an option. There was too much left to do. He had to see the end of the conference. Nothing halfway, no sir. He was a man of routine and he left no job unfinished.

Oh dear. Oh goodness gracious. This might kill him.

Cogsworth had ruled out several shirts already, looking for one that would not betray the nervous sweat he’d broken into. Lumiere hadn’t been gone two hours, but he was already panicking. What constituted ‘something handsome’? If he found out what that meant, should he wear it? Or would that be forward? Would it give Lumiere Ideas?

He didn’t want to give Lumiere Ideas, not when the man surely had so many of his own already.

He put on a white shirt and a brown blazer. After a moment’s thought, he went with the gold, wide-bottomed tie he wore on special occasions. This looked good, right? Looked acceptable? He’d been told that gold brought out his eyes, and it was appropriate to try to look good for a date, yes? Not that he obviously wanted to look good. But he didn’t want to look bad--he never did. But he wouldn’t look like he was trying; if he was wearing this, would he?

Was it too much? He took off the tie. No, never, too casual. He put the tie back on and tried to do something about his hair. Should he put on cologne? He never wore cologne, but it was a date, right?

What would they talk about? What could he say? He’d been so wrong before about Lumiere’s intentions. He’d offended the man terribly already. It wouldn’t do to argue with him tonight. What would they even have to talk about, if they weren’t arguing? There would be nothing, just the dumpy little Mathematics teacher with nothing to say and nothing of value, what little polish aloofness had provided him now worn away, sitting across from the consummately urbane Frenchman, boring him.

Lumiere would realize what a hopeless cause he was and poof--there would go any and all interest he’d ever had. Which would be good, of course, because then Lumiere wouldn’t be pressing those entirely distracting and nervous-making intentions upon him. But that was such a part of their friendship. Probably Lumiere would lose that interest, too.

Cogsworth sat down heavily, trying to taking deep breaths and remind himself that he was being ridiculous. All of this was ridiculous. It would be fine. It would. If it was an appalling evening, well, Lumiere prided himself far too much on tact to simply tell Cogsworth that he was the worst dinner companion he’d ever had. Sure, he’d think that, and loudly, and it might work its way into gossip six or eight months hence, but for now? If he was completely repulsed by Cogsworth, at least he wouldn’t say anything.

That was not a comforting thought. 

But it was even less comforting to consider the other extreme. What if it went well? What if they had a perfectly marvelous time? What if they wanted to do it again?

What if they _did something_ together?

He blushed to even think of it--that, and on a first date? Good heavens, no. But what if? After all, there were years of sexual tension behind this. Who knew when it could snap? And then there were all the worries involved with that new development, a hundred different humiliating things that would, in all likelihood, befall him...

He took another deep breath. No. No, no. Calm. Calm down. He glanced at the door. He couldn’t just run, could he? Just...leave? Just get a fake beard and sunglasses and finish the conference in a different hotel room, under an assumed name, and submit his resignation, then flee across the country, or back to England, never leave a forwarding address, and change his name, get plastic surgery, and go live in the woods?

Hell. Lumiere would probably still find him.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock at the door. Here it was! The heart attack that would save him!

...blast. He lived. Cogsworth swallowed heavily and stood up, trying not to shake apart. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, etc...

Lumiere was standing in the hallway, polished, stylish, looking not at all like he’d been kept out of his own room for three hours, wearing a debonair smile. “ _Bon soir, mon coeur._ You have obeyed me--most handsome, indeed.”

‘Obeyed.’ Good God. Cogsworth had opened his mouth to return fire, only to be stopped short by the sudden application of the man’s lips to his. Taken aback, he managed to jerk away before he could fall, as easy as that, into Lumiere’s arms. He’d never think clearly again!

“Lumiere!” he exclaimed, spluttering a little. That dog! Not so much as a ‘by your leave’!

“Ah, oui, you are quite correct, _mon ami_ \--that was thoughtless, without even presenting these.” 

Cogsworth frowned, ready to terminate the evening here, but he was stopped by the bouquet of wildflowers thrust under his nose.

“Oh,” he said, moderately surprised. Flowers? He took the bouquet gently. “Erm. Thank you? I had not expected this.”

“Stick to me. I’m full of surprises,” Lumiere said, winking. Cogsworth felt panic beating at the backs of his teeth, ready to explode out of him. 

He swallowed again and had a moment of terrible indecision. Was he supposed to smile? Would that be polite or quite revealing? He ended up with a pursed expression, biting the inside of his lips and mouth. “They are lovely. Excuse me a moment.”

He took the ice bucket and filled it in the bathroom sink, putting the spray of flowers in that. He was embarrassed by the shoddiness of that display, but how was he supposed to know to bring a crystal vase? He sighed and stepped out again. 

Lumiere had taken advantage of the moment to pop into the room and collect heaven-knew-what. He smiled, showing his teeth, and approached, placing a hand on the small of Cogsworth’s back and steering him toward the door. “Our evening is wasting! Come along, _mon cher_ , there is much to do!”

\--

Lumiere was immensely satisfied. He’d truly outdone himself, and if this evening didn’t live as a perfect moment in both of their memories, it would be only by a truly catastrophic act of God.

Cogsworth was nervous, and the poor man couldn’t even try to hide it. Lumiere could feel in the posture of the man how, every moment, he weighed and reweighed the option of turning tail and racing off. That first kiss had been bold of him, certainly, but now that he knew that Cogsworth, as his own blushes and expressions testified, desired him even more intensely than he had suspected, how could he be expected to resist?

He escorted his friend on the brief walk to the restaurant with his hand on his lower back, his arm nearly wrapped around his waist. He’d filled the air with talking, knowing well that taxing Cogsworth to respond at the moment would lead to dissonance. Feeling attacked, his friend would only bristle and look for a convenient reason to end the night short.

Nice try. Lumiere was going to squeeze the lifeblood out of this evening, every bit. Perfection should be seized by the throat and drunk dry.

He grinned, watching the gears turn in Cogsworth’s head as their destination was revealed. A small restaurant with a beautiful view of the wide river that ran through the city. On the porch where their table awaited, the crisp night air was dotted with bright paper lanterns, enough to cast a warm, flattering glow over the floor. 

He pulled out Cogsworth’s seat, settling that man’s indecision by guiding him, with firm, gentle hands into his chair. 

“There we are,” Lumiere cooed with sublime satisfaction, taking his own seat. “Well, _mon coeur_? Does it meet with your approval?”

“We shall see,” Cogsworth said, clearing his throat. A charming flush had risen on his neck, making a break for his cheeks. Ah, yes, it was a bit romantic, was it not? Perhaps a little unsubtle of him, but there was no more room for subtlety for them. “Is this menu in French?”

“ _Naturellement._ It is a French restaurant, Cogsworth. Do not worry.” Now came the acid test. He was curious to see what Cogsworth would order--nearly nervous, really. Half of the dates he’d ever had had been duds from the instant his companion ordered. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how he’d handle it, if Cogsworth asked for his meat ‘well done’ or ask for a non-fat option. He couldn’t give him any hints, of course--they’d have to see where his taste led him.

He had a mountain against him there, being English and what not. If he made a terrible misstep, Lumiere would try to correct him. Tastes could be refined, after all. He would swallow the disappointment and try to push through that character flaw; he was far too invested to simply throw him over, at this point.

A waiter approached to take drink orders. Lumiere was sorely tempted to order a bottle of wine, but...perhaps not on the first date. He ordered a glass, raising his eyebrows at Cogsworth.

Cogsworth frowned and closed the menu, shaking his head. “Listen, Lumiere, you are the expert in these matters. I’ll have whatever you advise.”

Lumiere found himself staring, and he had to snap to attention and quickly request two glasses of wine, an order of paté de campagne, and caille en sarcophage.

That...technically, it was cheating, letting Lumiere make the culinary decisions. He didn’t know the quality of Cogsworth’s palate yet.

On the other hand, choosing Lumiere’s choice was a decision in and of itself. And if he said so himself, that was the most excellent display of taste he’d ever seen!

\--

Bloody French restaurants. What was a man supposed to do, when he couldn’t even understand the menu? Leaving it up to Lumiere was the lesser of two evils, when one considered that he might end up with a plate of snails otherwise.

Lumiere seemed well-pleased, anyway. That little concession had done wonders for his mood, apparently.

To be quite honest, Cogsworth still wasn’t sure precisely what to think just yet. The restaurant was very nice, if a little too romantic. The food had to be good, or Lumiere would never let it even occur to him as an option. And Lumiere...

That cheeky kiss at the door aside, he’d been perfectly well-behaved. No daring innuendos or vulgar smiles yet. Just handsome and cheerful and talkative. Peaceful. Pleasant.

But something was missing. 

He found it nearly three minutes after their meals were ordered. He wrinkled his nose, falling away from his noble ambitions of not arguing. “You like _Gone With the Wind_?”

“Enormously,” Lumiere replied, sipping his wine. “It is one of my favorite English-language novels.” Cogsworth made a little scoffing noise, rolling his eyes.

“Good heavens. A worse piece of soppy drivel I am sure I have never encountered.”

Lumiere leaned back in his seat. “Heartless! How can you claim that? It is a deeply passionate story.”

“Nonsense. It’s hopelessly foolish! What kind of book is it that advises, ‘oh, just run away from your troubles, use other people ruthlessly, as long as you’re the center of attention...’”

“Unfair, Cogsworth. Our heroine is a bit spoiled, yes, but it cannot be rivaled for intense emotion--”

“Intense emotion? Pah. If you want intensity of feeling and an excellent moral story together, _Jane Eyre_ is the golden standard against which all others must be judged.”

“You jest! Tedious, timid, boring little Jane? And her brute of a paramour? Trust it to English sensibilities to triumph sacrifice and duty over pleasure,” Lumiere said, curling his lip a bit. 

“Duty is crucial to the health of such a relationship! If we all ran willy-nilly--”

“Oh, that is you idea of a healthy relationship, _mon cher_?” Lumiere smirked, taking a drag from his cigarette. “A less even coupling I cannot imagine. Jane, a colorless and consistently miserable self-flagellator, and her beloved, a brooding animal with no charity and less decency, brought low out of narrative convenience?”

“How dare you?”

“Denial of the truth makes it no less true.”

They glowered at each other for a bit, before the appetizer came. They both had a bit of it, and food proved the balm against which no wounds could remain raw.

“How can you have excellent taste in food, and such a wretched opinion of literature?” Cogsworth asked, closing his eyes to savor a bite. Oh. Good heavens. Far be it for him to concede French superiority, but...well, a bit of boiled meat and warm beer would not match this in a million years.

“My tastes are all equally excellent, as can be seen by my present choice in company,” Lumiere smiled. “And soon you shall come to trust me on all fronts.”

Well, they’d just see about that. Cogsworth smiled skeptically. They made their ways through their meals, fighting about the Napoleonic Wars and making terrible, terrible puns. 

It was a marvelous time.

\--

Lumiere felt a bit like punching the sky. Dinner had been superb. He’d never had such an evening, where the conversation had garnered more of his attention than the food. He was sure he’d only tasted every third bite, so busy was he listening to and parrying Cogsworth’s remarks.

And Cogsworth had been thoroughly charming all night, moreover. The man ate with spotless manners and obvious relish, which pleased Lumiere enormously. There was nothing worse than a picky eater, or worse, a person who hated to eat. 

They strolled along the riverside, continuing their conversation. They’d nearly come to blows over the subject of French and English football and now they were commiserating over a hatred of the superior but soulless Germans. The thrill of fierce argument and its blood-pumping properties had left him keen for close combat. 

The night was passing fair, with the lights on the water rippling up and the occasional streetlight illuminating the way. He couldn’t remember a more thoroughly successful evening. Cogsworth was relaxed, unselfconscious, and unless Lumiere gravely missed his mark, happy. 

It was such a pleasant thing to see.

“...and the admiral says ‘When it comes to eating, a sailor will always choose the lesser of two weevils!’”

Lumiere shuddered delicately, although the pun drew a small chuckle out of him. “Ugh! You laugh at the wretched quality of sailing provisions? Prudent men would faint! This is what I mean. You poor creatures, subjected to such diets--no wonder you are ruthless at sea and coarse in manner.”

“Coarse in manner? Nothing of the kind. You shall be hard-pressed to find a more courteous man than a well-bred Englishman.”

“Courteous? Yes, they will say precisely the right things, while their spirits languish. If there is a bit of ardor in one man out of a hundred of you, I shall eat my words. Perfectly polite, at the expense of feeling.”

“That’s a bit much. Merely because we choose not to flounce about, flinging our feelings left and right, doesn’t mean they are not there, and quite powerful.”

“Oh? So you reserve your feelings for the proper moment? I would be surprised that they do not atrophy.”

Cogsworth gave him a look that nearly made him step back. It was significantly warmer than any look he’d ever received from the man, and matched with a smile that was really far closer to a smirk than anything else. “I am sure that if you were to dig deep enough into a quiet Englishman, you would find reserves of passion that even you would be hard-pressed to match.”

“That is a challenge.”

“I stand by it.”

Lumiere grinned, leaning a bit closer to him as they walked along. “ _Oui, petit?_ Then you would be willing to try the experiment? Or do you feel the need to run off and hide your depths?”

“Not at all scientific, if you focus only on me,” Cogsworth said, clearing his throat. Retreat? No! Not now!

“One must start somewhere,” Lumiere said lightly, leaning back a bit. Give him room, if he needed it. He was close enough that a little bit of flexibility was what was chiefly needed. “And I imagine I could not ask for a better beginning--though perhaps you are not what I might call a ‘quiet’ Englishman...”

Cogsworth’s response was indignant in voice and amused in expression, and Lumiere was hard-pressed not to grin all the way home.

\--

“I think I’m going to tear my hair out,” moaned Pleakley. He was lying on his back, the aforementioned hair dangling off the bed, knees bent and pointing towards the ceiling. “I mean, come on. What do I need to do?”

“You could just sneak into bed with him,” Wiggins suggested, grinning as Pleakley seized a pillow and hit him with it.

“Don’t even joke! As if I haven’t thought about it! You know, he was absolutely checking me out all day today. What am I going to do? I mean--he’s brilliant, yeah, but he’s also kind of a dummy about this king of thing.”

“I’m quite serious, Wendy-dear. Fortune favors the bold, after all...”

“And has that ever worked for you?”

Wiggins’ smile grew rather naughty. “You know, dear, sometimes they just need to know that it’s there for the taking. They can be a little, well, oblivious otherwise. You’d be surprised how well jumping into their laps works.”

Pleakley grinned, flipping onto his side to face his friend. “Wiggy! You didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t. It’s no good in my case--he needs to think he’s making the decisions, so I have to play a few little tricks on him to force his hand. He was so het up about those lipstick stains...I was a little worried he’d get stuck in a sneer forever. Which would probably suit him, to be perfectly honest. And then seeing me with you all day was the last straw, it seems...he hemmed me against the wall later, fire in his eyes, getting right up close, and he gave me a nice, long lecture about who I work for.” He shivered a little, grinning. “He’s quite forceful, you know.”

“So...did you, or didn’t you? Do something physical?”

“Not yet. But it can’t be long now, Wendy-love...he already thinks of me as ‘his.’ A little more teasing and he’ll want to prove it by staking a proper claim. It’s not like he doesn’t know I’m up for anything he wants to try.”

“Do you think he...you know, feels something for you?” 

Wiggins smiled wryly. “You know, dear, I don’t particularly care. The hunt is so good, and so will be the catch, but I’m not going to get myself all hung up on this one. Maybe it’s a little late not to get attached, but I’m going to enjoy every moment of this. No heartbreak. Not if I can help it.”

Pleakley sighed. “I wish I could just turn my feelings off like that. It would make everything so much easier...”

“Oh, don’t say that! Dr. Jookiba is a wonderful man, well worth loving! Don’t take me seriously, Wendy, you know I’m jaded. I’m just not ready to give it all up for someone who’s not going to give any back. But the man is completely devoted to you, darling, one way or the other, and anyone can see it. You mustn’t think he won’t be a good partner for you. If you work up the nerve to throw yourself at him, that is,” he added with a cheeky grin.

“You just want to plan a seduction, Mr. Sneaky. You can’t fool me.”

“Maybe a little. I’m telling you, dearest, there’s no way he’ll make that first move. ‘Straight’ men never do. You’re going to have to be the one who takes the reins.”

Pleakley made a little whining noise. “But it’s so hard...”

Wiggins gave him a smutty look, grinning. “And it’s going to stay hard until you two manage to do something about it together.”

Pleakley gasped, giggling. “You are filthy!”

“Part of my charm, Wendy-love. I can’t pretend to be spotless all the time...”

“Aww. What would I do without you,” the nurse grinned, and the conversation turned away from his romantic troubles. But that little seed was planted, and Pleakley began to make tentative plans.

\--

They stumbled in the door, laughing. 

“No, no, please, I--” Cogsworth snorted and broke once more into peals of laughter. That set Lumiere off once more, and they slumped against the walls of their room, trying to contain themselves. 

“This was--heh--enormous fun,” Cogsworth said, panting a little. There was no point in denying it, for as soon as they’d started arguing, he’d enjoyed every single moment. This evening had been completely delightful, from the food to the companionship and everything in between. If this was what dating was like, he could really get used to it. 

“Ah yes? Perhaps you are now sorry you waited so long to take me up on my offers,” Lumiere smirked.

Cogsworth lifted his eyebrows, still grinning. “You’re smug now, are you? Well, I was right to be cautious. Who can know what your intentions are?”

“ _Mon cher,_ I am transparent. A blind man could see all there is to my intentions,” his companion said with a warm look and an elegant shrug.

A little flutter of nervousness burst to life in Cogsworth’s belly, and it made his smile droop some. “Lumiere--”

“Shall I show you my intentions?” he asked, moving closer to him. Cogsworth swallowed.

“L-Lumiere, listen, this has been very, very lovely, but I’m not entirely sure we should--”

“Hush, _cher_...”

“I’m just perfectly positive that this isn’t a step that is prudent to take--”

Lumiere was very close. Too close. He smiled, keeping Cogsworth in place with nothing more than proximity. He lifted one hand, setting it lightly on Cogsworth’s cheek. He leaned even closer, brushing their noses together in the world’s most sensual Eskimo kiss. “I’m going to kiss you, _mon coeur_. Say definitively ‘no’ now or hold your peace.”

“I...” He didn’t say anything else. ‘No’ would’ve been a lie, and for the moment--no matter how mad it proved him later--he didn’t want to lie about this.

“Good,” Lumiere smiled, and kissed him. 

Cogsworth gave up, letting the other man deepen the kiss. Oh, what the hell. It wasn’t worth the fighting at the moment, not after such a perfect night. He’d never have a night this wonderful again, in all likelihood. He’d enjoy it.

Lumiere purred softly, rewarding his willing relaxation by fitting their mouths closer together. He took a step closer, one foot between Cogsworth’s, his hands sliding away from the more courtly touches to his face and shoulders, running down to his chest and sides. Cogsworth let him put those hands under his jacket, resting against his shirt. In return, his own hands found the Frenchman’s sharp hips. 

The first kiss was long, but they couldn’t be bothered to break it. Breathing through their noses, by an unspoken agreement they decided to extend the moment as long as they could. For Lumiere, that meant letting his hands wander and pet Cogsworth, and Cogsworth followed his lead. They went slowly--what was there to rush for?--but Lumiere pushed even closer. The kiss broke reluctantly, and Lumiere pecked his mouth lightly, breathing a little heavily.

Cogsworth decided that he was done lying back. He meant what he’d said about English passion. A little taste of it would be appropriate here, he thought.

He leaned into Lumiere, taking control of a new kiss. His companion made a soft noise that Cogsworth thoroughly enjoyed, though he could not tell if it was one of surprise or of pleasure. He reached up to cup the back of Lumiere’s neck, his other arm wrapping around his waist. His technique was probably not as refined as the Frenchman’s, but he kissed him with careful attention, and firmly, brooking no foolishness--certainly not the rather paltry attempt Lumiere made at regaining dominance. Lumiere clutched at his back, wrinkling his shirt in his fists.

They parted with a low moan of disappointment from someone. Its precise origins were hard to confirm, but Cogsworth had the delicious suspicion that he’d just drawn that noise out of Lumiere.

They glanced at each other, as they stood inches apart, sharing breath, both flushed, both a little breathless.

Then, somebody snapped.

The next few minutes were something of a blur. Cogsworth felt the hard, cool wall hit his back a little less than gently, and he felt the hot, urgent press of the other man’s body against his. They were kissing again, this time with no artifice, no pretense of restraint. Lumiere was groping him, nearly fondling him, with all the finesse of an excited teenage boy. Cogsworth was no better, sliding his hands down the Frenchman’s back to give that shamelessly pert rear of his a two-handed squeeze, pulling him closer. 

Their mouths fought, growing more animalistic as lips were bitten--though softly--and rumbles of noises accompanied heavy, delectable sensation. Someone, and Cogsworth conceded that this time it might’ve been him, began to shift his hips against the other’s. The mutual groan that brought settled the matter as being a good idea, and soon their hips were as locked in no less passionate a kiss.

“ _Cher_ ,” Lumiere gasped airily, as they parted for breath. The Frenchman began to kiss his neck, nibbling lightly over his pulse point. Cogsworth tilted his head, giving him wordless permission. “ _Oui, mon beau cher, encore, encore, mon petit chou-fleur, oui,_ I have waited long--”

He shuddered as Lumiere began to undo some of the buttons of his shirt, his tie loosened to the point of uselessness. Those long, slender hands mounted an attack on his bare skin, and Lumiere’s bony hips rubbed the very clear evidence of the other man’s desire against his own. 

He wanted--God, he wanted--and he could have it, right now, if he--

“Lumiere,” he said. It sounded more like a groan than a warning, so he cleared his throat. “I’m--we really--oh--we must stop.”

Lumiere growled, pushing against him again, rubbing their hips together. “Now?”   
“Yes...”

“When things were going so well?”   “Yes.”

“Do you say that because you want to stop, or because you are scared?”

“Lumiere...”

“Ugh. Fine.” He stopped kissing, and withdrew his hand from inside Cogsworth’s shirt, but he didn’t entirely release him. “You are a tease, you know, you wretched little Englishman.”

Cogsworth shrugged, smiling a little, though he wasn’t sure why. “Your restraint does you credit.”

“Bah. It certainly does. You would try a saint,” Lumiere replied, drawing himself away at last. He looked quite debauched, high in color and mussed as he was, with that obscene bulge in his trousers. Cogsworth licked his lips, realizing a second too late that he was doing it and that Lumiere had seen it. 

The Frenchman growled and took another kiss from him, unable to let that go. “Tease!”

“It’s the first date,” Cogsworth said in his own defense. “What do you expect?”

Lumiere smirked, though the effect was a little ruined by his wild appearance. “More dates, then? The first date is never the only date...”

“Yes, yes, fine. We’ll let nature take its course on this one.”

“Ah, but it never hurts to fan the flames, you know, a little,” Lumiere said, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Your flames have been well-fanned for this evening, sir.”

“Very well, very well...I know better than to argue on this.”

Cogsworth nodded. “Excellent.” He happened to glance down at himself and blushed, doing up his shirt. “You’ve left me a wreck!”

“Not nearly as wrecked as I’d like,” Lumiere murmured. “If you are steadfast then, pardon me--a warm shower is in order.”

“Warm?” He’d thought one took cold showers for this sort of thing.

Lumiere gave him a smutty smile. “Not all of us repress ourselves, _cher_. Some enjoy the moment.” Oh, the images the evoked...

Lumiere leaned in to take a final kiss, before disappearing into the bathroom with a smirk.

Hedonist. Cogsworth awkwardly made himself ready for bed and slid between the covers. He sat up and read for a while, glancing up when Lumiere emerged, naked but for a bath towel wrapped around his waist. Cogsworth made a valiant effort not to stare, but suspected that he hadn’t managed to hide it. 

The other man gave him a grin and a wink and threw himself, towel and all, into bed.

A few moments later, he tossed the towel on one of the chairs, halfway across the room. Lumiere gave him an inviting look.

Cogsworth blushed darkly and doused his light, hurrying to arrange himself to sleep. He could hear Lumiere’s warm chuckle at the other side of the room. Shameless!


	9. Karaoke As An Art Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last evening of the conference. The event has been good for some, not so much for others--but a karaoke outing will settle everything out and tie up some loose ends.
> 
> This is the chapter with smut in.

“Well, hello again.”

Zazu stiffened, stopped short on his way to the day’s first panel. Damn it! One moment’s inattention and he was caught. It was hardly fair--he had his first cup of tea in his hands. It wasn’t reasonable, expecting a man to be functioning at full capacity when he hadn’t even had his caffeine yet.

He turned around. “Hello. Good morning.”

Scar looked impossibly polished for nine AM, from his slickly shined shoes to the top of his rakish, artfully tousled hair. It was offensive to look that good. “So polite,” he murmured, smirking. “One could hardly believe you were the type to run off and abandon your friends, mid-conversation.”

Zazu swallowed, straightening his back. No weakness. Not now. “I’m very sorry if I’ve been rude, but I think ‘friends’ might be a bit of stretch for what we are.”

“Oh, rather vicious first thing in the morning, aren’t you? One wonders if that extends to the midnight hours, too.”

Good heavens. This had to stop. He would go mad if he didn’t stop it here. “Scar--”

  “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to find out, would you?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Zazu said coolly. “I’m afraid I gave you the wrong impression early on in our association, but I’m not exactly looking for a...companion.”

“Lovely. In perfect honesty, ‘companionship’ is not really what I’m interested in, either. I’m glad to hear we’re of one mind...”

Fortunately for Zazu, Scar’s own smirk was not helping his case. It reminded him of that dreadful chill in the man’s eyes, that subtle but unmistakable hint of cruelty that pervaded his aura. “I’m not interested in any association between us, at the moment. I have to insist that you stop.”

All the warmth in the man’s expression disappeared, which was fine--it had been hell’s warmth, anyway. He lifted both eyebrows. “Do you now? Well, I suppose the family resemblance just isn’t quite strong enough for you, is it?”

That stung, but he had the upper hand and he wasn’t going to lose it. “I’m just not interested. So sorry. Thank you anyway. If you’ll kindly excuse me...”

He spun on his heel and walked into the conference room, trying not to grin. Hah! Sweet victory! He took a congratulatory sip of his tea. Probably it couldn’t just be that easy, but then again, Scar was a proud sort of man--he wouldn’t be keen to continue to pursue someone who had completely rejected him.

At last. A little peace.

\--

“Mornin’, baby.”

Bagheera’s eyes fluttered open, only to squint closed against the morning sun. He turned his head, trying to avoid the light, and pressed his cheek more firmly against Baloo’s bare chest. “Ugh. Did the clock go off? I didn’t hear it.”

“Let ya sleep in a little,” the man beside him said, chuckling softly.

“Baloo!” He batted lightly at his chest, unable to really be annoyed.

“Ya always circle the talks you wanna go to in the program book, and ya didn’t have anything circle till past noon. Figured you could use a break.”

“Hmph. Should I be flattered by the attention? And breaks are what summer will be for, you slacker,” Bagheera sighed, scooting a little closer. “What time is it?”

“Nine. We got hours and hours, all to ourselves,” Baloo said, a low rumble unmistakable in his tone. If Bagheera hadn’t picked up on that, the hand that was sliding down his back was warm and firm, and the fingertips flirted beneath the waistline of his pajama pants made Baloo's intentions clear. “Besides. You don’t wanna go see those chumps, do ya, handsome?”

“Hmm. Those chumps are my valued coworkers,” Bagheera mused. “So, to be honest, no. Staying in bed is fine.”

“Attaboy,” Baloo grinned, and the next several minutes were rather lovely.

Later, Bagheera lay flat on his back, trying to catch his breath and craving a cigarette. “A+, Mr. Sangita. My goodness.”

“Heh, right back at’cha, gorgeous,” Baloo grinned. He slid upwards on the bed, pecking Bagheera’s lips and wincing as the muscles in his back shifted. “Ooh. Ow, baby, anybody tell you ya treat’em like a scratching post?”

Bagheera smiled lazily, tracing a bite mark on the other man’s shoulder with his index finger. “You’re the first to complain.”

“Maybe you can kiss it better and we’ll call it square.” Another light kiss brushed his lips. “Love you, baby.”

Bagheera tensed involuntarily. It was impossible to hide it from Baloo, when they were pressed so close and wrapped around each other.

The big man lifted his eyebrows a bit, propping himself up on one elbow. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Bagheera said hastily. “Not at all. I love you, too.”

“Yeah, and? What’s buggin’ you?”

Blast it. Baloo had always been perceptive when it came to a person’s feelings. “I suppose I’m just a little nervous about the adoption.”  

“Fair enough. Now, what’s that gotta do with me sayin’ that I love ya?”

Bagheera glowered at him. Baloo tilted his chin down, staring at Bagheera intently. Bagheera tried to find the words for this, something he could say that would be reasonable, inoffensive, accurate.

Baloo would know if he was lying, after all.

“I...how shall we adopt the boy?” Bagheera asked. “If it works out and we are compatible with him? I’m sure you have more money saved, but I have better credit, and the house is in my name. He will like you more right off the bat, however, since you’re...you, and everyone likes you more.”

  “I figured we’d adopt him together,” Baloo replied. “Joint adoption sort of deal.”

“Two men, unrelated roommates, adopting a child? Will they consent to it?”

“We ain’t just roommates, Bagheera, we’re...oh, hang on, I know what’s got you all worked up!” Baloo snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “You think I’m gonna bolt on ya and leave ya saddled with a cub!”

“That is nonsense! I know you would never do any such thing!” Bagheera said, frowning. Intellectually, he knew that. Emotionally, however...

“Baghee, I’m stupid in love with you! You gotta believe that! You know I ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

He glanced away, ashamed by Baloo’s earnest response. Of course the man would never do something like that to him. He knew he wouldn’t--furthermore, he wasn’t capable of it. That was something a lesser man would do, a man who didn’t have Baloo’s heart of solid gold.

“You’re right, I know you are,” he said quietly. “But how will the adoption agency respond? They’ll want to give him to a family, won’t they?”

“We’re a family!”  “A married couple, Baloo.”

That seemed to shut him up, at least for a moment. Bagheera waited him out, his whole body tense. He’d thought that Baloo would have a knee-jerk, reactionary answer, but as the seconds ticked by, a new wave of anxiety washed over him. Baloo was thinking about it, thinking about it seriously, and that could only mean that he was having doubts on both sides of the situation.

“Oh, c’mon, baby, c’mere,” he said quietly, pulling Bagheera close against him. Baloo flopped on his back, tugging Bagheera until he was half-sprawled on the man’s front. “Somebody gave you some sort of complex along the way, Baghee. You’re shakin’ like a leaf. Baby, if they don’t wanna let us see the kid until we’re hitched, I’ll drag ya to city hall and get a marriage certificate that same day. You know I’d do it.”

“You’d marry me?” Confirmation. One cannot merely assume--

“Hell yeah, I would. Make us Mr. and Mr. Sangita.”

Oh thank heavens. “I happen to like Mr. and Mr. Kala.”

“Whatever, baby, but somebody’s losin’ their last name.” Baloo kissed him, warm and firm and sure. Wiping those foolish, nervous thoughts out of his head. “I’d marry ya, and then I’d honeymoon ya, as soon as you say you wanna. Tomorrow or next year or whenever. And even if we can’t adopt the kid, I’d marry ya anyway.”

Bagheera smiled, kissing back gently. “That is something of a relief to me. Thank you.”

“Jeez, you’re a blockhead. We’ve been doing this for two years!”

“Some people have gone more than twenty years in a serious relationship, before splitting up, having never married.”

“Oh, like you’d sit for that. No way. I wanna marry you, but even if I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t stand a chance. If you wanted something outta me, you would’ve had it in your hot little hands before the end of the day, and we both know it. All you ever had to do was say something.”

“I supposed I’m glad to hear that you are keen to let me have my will. You know, if we plan to make this quite official and legal, we shall have to tell our coworkers...”

  “Well, that wrecked the mood.”

 “And your mother.”

“Baghee! You’re killin’ the romance!”

Bagheera felt his smile growing. “This is about the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard of, as it happens.”

“Romantic for who? I’m tellin’ ya what you need to hear, and tellin’ ya I’m pretty much always happy to let you have your way, moreover.”

He laughed. “When you put it that way, I take it back. This is extremely romantic, for me.”

“Too right.” Baloo grinned. “If ya really wanted, I guess I could ‘romance’ ya again, make this a little more lovey-dovey.”

Bagheera glanced at the clock. Ten AM.

Oh, they had time and more time.

\--

This was the day when nothing got done.

Cogsworth liked to average one pointless day every three months, preferably on a Sunday. He did not appreciate the sensation of uselessness. It chafed with his essential ideas about hard work, consistency, and punctuality.

This was the second unproductive day in the same seventy-two hours. All day long, he’d sat and taken notes, only half-hearing what was going on around him. His concentration was completely shot.

And he had the dreadful suspicion that he’d been smiling for much of the day. Not grinning, because he would’ve felt that, but certainly he’d gotten some strange looks from his coworkers. He might’ve looked just the slightest bit pleased with his lot.

Horrible.

Lumiere had been effervescent, which was a little annoying. They’d been within view of each other for most of the day, and Cogsworth had seen how afire the other man seemed. Everyone around him was certainly charmed by his energy and obvious good mood, how he was extremely chatty and attentive and full of vitality.

Every now and then he’d look over in Cogsworth’s direction, grinning like a lunatic. Incorrigible.

He knew it was awful, really quite awful, that he was so distracted and Lumiere was being so obvious. He was appalled, truly, at his own fuzzy-headedness. He had higher standards for himself. This was part of his job, for heaven’s sake!

Summer break couldn’t come soon enough. He was losing his mind.

The conference ended for the evening, at last. The closing ceremonies would take place tomorrow morning, and then they would leave. It was their last night in this city--which had become rather close to Cogsworth’s heart, to be quite honest--and he supposed they should do something as a group.

“All right, all right,” he said that evening, holding up his hands. The group had assembled, all more or less willing to do something together. For some, the conference appeared to have done a great deal of good--Mr. Baloo and Mr. Bagheera looked extremely content, and Mr. Zazu had something of intense relief about him. For others, things didn’t seem to be going quite so well. Dr. Jookiba looked as if he had swallowed a rather large hornet, and Coach Phil looked completely downtrodden.

Well, as long as they sorted it out professionally, he didn’t much care.

“Thank you,” Cogsworth said, as they quieted. “We ought to do something together on this last evening, as a morale-building exercise. Any ideas?”

“Karaoke!” suggested Nurse Pleakley.

“Oh God no,” said a pale Mr. Sebastian, liking remembering his failed attempts at coordinating a decent staff choir.

“Oh, c’mon, y’old stick-in-the-mud!” said Miss Terk, grinning. “It’d be fun! Put it to a vote.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” said Mr. Bagheera, crossing his arms.

“I’m in,” said Mr. Baloo, getting a dirty look from Mr. Bagheera. Was something going on between those two? Perhaps Cogsworth should keep a closer eye on them.

“Oh, really now. It’s just an excuse to embarrass oneself,” countered Mr. Zazu, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’ve had a long few days. Why not do something quiet?” offered Cogsworth.

“Cogsworth, where is your sense of adventure? It will be very enjoyable,” Lumiere said. “I think we should go.”

“I’m always up for a little entertainment!” Mr. Gene said, hands planted on his hips.

“No way, man, not me. No singing. I am NOT gonna sing,” said Mr. Mushu, shaking his head, arms crossed.

“As long as singing ain’t required, I’m in,” Coach Phil said gruffly.

“Oh man, it totally should be!” said Miss Terk. “Everybody should have to sing at least once!”

“Ugh. Fine, I’m still in,” grumbled the coach. That was odd. What was wrong with him, that he agreed so easily? “But I’m gonna sing something short.”

“Dr. Jookiba?” Cogsworth said, a little desperately. “Your thoughts? If we have a tie, perhaps we will find something else to do.”

The science teacher crossed his arms over his chest. “Hate to sing,” he started, but Nurse Pleakley squeezed his arm a little, giving him a pleading look, her lower lip pouting. “Eh. But will do it if drunk enough. We go.”

Cogsworth sighed, defeated. “Very well. Karaoke it is. I suppose you have a particular location in mind, Nurse Pleakley?”

“Do I? It’s great! You’re going to love it!”

Somehow he doubted that. There were groans from the opposing minority, but everyone filed out after Phil, who chomped on his cigar and dug around for his keys.

Cogsworth sighed again, following after at a trudge. Lumiere sidled up and wrapped an arm around him, squeezing. “Come along, _mon cher!_ Do not be so dour. This shall cheer you up!” 

“How will forcing me to sing--really, anyone to sing--cheer me up?”

“Well, it will cheer those around you up,” Lumiere grinned, winking. “You can help me select a song! Perhaps Lady Marmalade?”

“Pardon?”

“ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?_ ” Lumiere purred, kissing his cheek. Cogsworth turned red at the public display of affection, translating the words with his limited grasp of French.

“Will I sleep with--Lumiere!”

The Frenchman laughed and dragged him out of the lobby.

\--

Phil was not a happy man.

For the past two days, he’d been completely miserable. Terk wasn’t acting all that different from how she normally acted, but he was certain that something was gravely, gravely off-kilter. She was just a little bit disappointed, he could feel it. That little bit of disappointment would grow and fester and drive a wedge between them if he didn’t do anything about it PDQ.

Why couldn’t he just tell her that yeah, he loved her? She was a wonderful gal and a great friend and the best girlfriend he’d ever had by a long shot. Why did the words stick in his mouth?

Man, he was so toast. He’d never been a guy who expressed himself verbally, and he’d thought she was the same. He’d said he loved her by helping her fix her car and picking up the ice cream she liked at the shop without being told and rooting for the Cowboys with her, even though he hated them. He thought that it was clear.

And now...

He took a long drink of his bitter and sighed. Damn. This had been so freakin’ great and he--

Gene nudged him in the arm. “Pay attention, man. Your lady’s up next.”

Zazu stepped down, red-faced, from his rather stirring rendition of ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts,’ signaling for a drink, and Terk took the microphone. She covered it with her palm, talking to the man running the machine. They exchanged a few words and she grinned.

“All right, guys, this one’s a little different from my usual thing. Bear with me and I’ll sing ya something else later,” she said. A soft, rather electronic rhythm began to play, and her smile got a little less cocky.

It was a love song, Phil realized, when she was a little further in. Terk was a lady tenor, and she had a nice voice, although he’d admit that he liked it more when she was shouting or laughing than when she was singing. Still, it had that gritty, sassy urban vibe that he liked so much, and she was cute on stage, dancing a little, all self-confidence and swagger.

She was just perfect, sometimes.

He tuned in a little to the lyrics when she looked right at him, and nearly fell on his ass.

_Are you mine, are you mine?_   
_‘Cause I stay here all the time_   
_Watching telly, drinking wine._   
_Who’d have known, who’d have known?_   
_When you flash up on my phone,_   
_I no longer feel alone._   
_Let’s just stay, let’s just stay,_   
_I want to lie in bed all day._   
_We’ll be laughing all the way._   
_Told your friends, they all know,_   
_We exist, but we’re taking it slow._   
_Let’s see how we go..._

She smiled at him. _“Let’s see how we go.”_

He felt like his jaw must’ve hit the counter. That’s it? Just see how they went? That was enough for her?

Shit.

He’d never known a woman who really meant it when she said she was ‘just curious.’ She hadn’t been het up about hearing him say he loved her--he’d been spazzing out about if for no reason for days!

He was an idiot!  When she finished her song, he jumped to his feet and clapped loudly, hurrying to take his turn. All right, time to lay it on the line, show her how they were goin’. He hopped up on stage and gave some directions to the guy running the show. John Prine, She Is My Everything.

Perfect.

He stepped up to the mike with a grin.

\--

Cogsworth stepped down from the microphone, embarrassed. It had nearly taken an act of God to get him up there in the first place, after Mr. Sebastian nearly brought the house down with the single liveliest version of ‘Shake, Senora’ that anyone had ever heard.

By comparison, his rather grim ‘Gilg Arra Mountain’ had to be vastly inferior. Everyone clapped politely, though, which he supposed was all he could hope for.

He was glad to return to his cocktail.

Lumiere came up to the stage after him, carrying a stool with him. The ponce. Of course he’d want a prop. He perched on it, lit a cigarette, and took a drag, breathing out the smoke under the pinkish stage lights. It glimmered as it dissipated.

He really did look ridiculously handsome up there, with his clothing artfully rumpled and his skin coyly peeking out around his throat and forearms. He leaned forward, as if he were about to kiss the microphone, his eyelids lowered in something very like false modesty, pretending he didn’t see the audience he knew was ready to adore him.

The music began and Cogsworth had a distinct sense of deja vu, knowing that he had hear this song before. It was very famous, something he’d heard many times before. Something very French.

It took him a few moments after Lumiere began to sing, but he figured it out with the refrain.

La Vie En Rose.

That...was very, very much a love song. A very romantic love song, at that. He’d seen a translation once, something about being ‘so in love that the world looked pink.’

Lumiere was looking at him. His eyelids were lowered in that smoky way he had, his voice--melodious at the best of times, but especially when he was singing--wrapping beautifully around the French words. Though his eyes were nearly half-closed, he managed to pin Cogsworth to the spot, making direct, if subtle, eye contact.

He felt himself flush darkly and took a sip of his drink to mask it. The man didn’t have any shame at all, did he? Sitting up there singing about love in that language, in public, and making sure that Cogsworth knew exactly what he was thinking of...

When he finished his song, both Miss Terk and Nurse Pleakley were clapping loudest of all, at least until Coach Phil grumbled to Miss Terk and she laughed, smacking him on the chest. The other men clapped politely, some apparently rather envious of the Frenchman’s suavity. He bowed, smiling, and was immediately accosted by a few women at the steps of the stage, who tried to give him slips of paper.

He held up his hands to ward them off and smiled politely, escaping only to sit himself down beside Cogsworth and sip his wine. “Well, _mon beau?_ Do you suppose I should quit my day job?”

“It was very nice,” Cogsworth said primly.

“Just nice? I did not make your knees melt? Next round, I will try again.”

Cogsworth rolled his eyes. “I am afraid it will take more than a bit of singing to melt my knees.”

“Oh? Then I will have to try many, many things...the experimentation will be fun,” Lumiere promised, smirking.

Cogsworth pretended to pay attention to Nurse Pleakley hopping up to the stage.

\--

Jumba was running out of options. Something had to be done.

Pleakley’s first song had been ‘You’re My Best Friend,’ one of those songs by the man with the handlebar mustache that Pleakley played when he cleaned up around the apartment. Jumba had never really listened to those lyrics before tonight.

It sounded like a rather loving friendship, he thought.

No one had tried to drag him up yet, for which he was relieved, although he knew they’d try sooner or later. Being imposingly large and standoffish had its benefits. They’d have to consume a large amount of liquid courage before they could get up the nerve to try to make him do something he didn’t want to do.

Pleakley bounced up for his second turn. He cleared his throat, grinning and curtsying when Gene and Mushu let out a few whistles.

“Thank you!” he simpered. “This one’s for my special someone.”

A loud, brassy beat poured out of the speakers, a kind of swing-dance sound to it. Pleakley did a little shimmy and a trace of footwork, before starting to sing in a rather convincing falsetto.

_I just made an appointment for a special rendezvous_   
_To see a man of miracles and all that he can do._   
_I checked in at reception, put my hat into my lap,_   
_and when he walked in dressed in white, I had a heart attack!_

_My eyes went, ‘ooh!’_   
_My voice just cooed!_   
_My mind let loose!_   
_I’ll stay forever, it’s up to you!_

Pleakley shimmied and bobbed as a prerecorded voice made a few scat sounds.

Jumba was not prepared for what followed.

_Doctor, I want you!   Mmm, Doctor Wanna Do!_   
_I can’t get over you!_   
_Doctor, do anything that you wanna do!_   
_Doctor, I want you!_   
_Mmm, Doctor Wanna Do!   I can’t get over you,_   
_Doctor, do anything that you wanna do!_

The song got no less saucy, and neither did Pleakley’s dancing. His hips were swaying, feet tapping, and he caressed the microphone stand every now and then in a way that would make any mind race.

Oh boy. He did not need this, on top of a whole three days of paying far too much attention to Pleakley and his distractingly, though oddly, sexy body.

His mind wasn’t the only thing racing--his heart had started to pound and his blood was coursing, fast. He needed to keep a lid on this.

The end of the song was greeted with a roar of applause, people who hadn’t even been part of the group standing up to clap. Jumba clapped a little, noting with a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure that he was on the receiving end of some rather jealous stares.

Pleakley skipped off the stage and back into his seat.

“Never hearing that song before, little one,” Jumba commented quietly.

“No? It’s one of my favorites,” Pleakley smiled, looking up at him through his lashes. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all day. Did you have a nice evening?”

“Fine.” 

“Good. Me, too.” Pleakley leaned his head on Jumba’s shoulder. “Missed you, though. It’ll be nice to sleep together again.”

“Ah, ah, little one. Not making distinction. You are sleeping over with me, yes?”

Pleakley gave him a rather smutty look and shrugged.

Yeah. He was in deep. Jumba just smirked back and tried to pretend that the idea wasn’t extremely interesting.

\--

Stumbling out of a bar was not a phenomenon Cogsworth was very familiar with. Sure, there had been a couple of pub crawls in his college years, but nothing with coworkers. No one had meant to get drunk, he was sure of it. That was unprofessional.

Yet here he was, with Lumiere helping him along--not that he needed it, as he was only tipsy. Dr. Jookiba had a very giggly Nurse Pleakley on his arm, and Phil and Terk were nowhere to be found. He remembered them saying something about leaving early.

Dr. Jookiba would have to drive. Everyone else had had something to drink.

Mr. Zazu was thrown in the backseat like an indignant, squawking ragdoll. Cogsworth had moral problems with drinking blue cocktails--nothing blue and alcoholic could be good for one’s constitution--but he supposed something about a drink called ‘Bird of Paradise’ appealed to the man. He’d had three and was rather worse for it. Cogsworth disapproved, but hadn’t the heart to say anything. Zazu’d had a very rough few days, though the Mathematics teacher couldn’t quite see why, and he’d let him have his will, this close to break.

Gene and Mushu took off in the other direction, considering the night still young. Cogsworth wished them poor hunting--he was pretty sure neither one had picked up any ladies this weekend and, since this was a professional outing, he’d rather keep it that way. Or at least let them catch something that could be gotten rid of before morning.

So it was Dr. Jookiba and Nurse Pleakley, Mr. Zazu, a content but tired Mr. Sebastian, Cogsworth and Lumiere, and Mr. Baloo and Mr. Bagheera all in a vehicle. As Cogsworth settled into his seat, he was fairly certain he saw Mr. Baloo kissed Mr. Bagheera--and a moment later he had no doubts at all, seeing Mr. Bagheera kiss back. Shameless display! He’d known something was going on there!

  Well, at least it didn’t interfere with work. Good for them.

Once they reached the hotel, everyone trundled out except for Cogsworth and Lumiere. Mr. Baloo grabbed Mr. Zazu and helped him into the building.

Cogsworth was trapped. Lumiere was draped over him, and Cogsworth suspected him of acting more drunk than he was. “Lumiere.”

“ _Oui, mon petit chou-fleur?_ ”  

“Get off.”

“Ooh, if you insist...but you must let me make you do the same...”

Cogsworth blushed. That was naughty. “Behave yourself. It’s time for bed.”

“Mm, at last...”

“Even if that was what I mean, and it is not, you are rather too inebriated for me to have any such ideas in that direction.”

“You are chatty when drunk. Perhaps I will find something to occupy that lovely mouth of yours...”

Did he have to say that out loud?! Cogsworth must look like an embarrassed tomato. “Hush, you mongrel. Now come along and let’s get some rest.”

Lumiere forced himself to sit up, a little smile on his face as he looked at Cogsworth. “Ah. So you are insistent? We will not make love tonight?”

Cogsworth blinked, his heart beating far too fast. “Make...?”

“Love, _mon coeur._ You will not allow my attentions tonight?”

Cogsworth cleared his throat. “Um. N-No. I’m sorry, but not tonight. We’re a bit...you know. Intoxicated. And it’s only been one date...”

“Two dates,” Lumiere replied. “A group date. I sang only for you, after all.”

Oh dear. “T-Two dates. A little early, I think.”

“You will not string me along, will you? Continue to tease?” Lumiere asked, lifting his eyebrows a little.

Cogsworth swallowed, fidgeting. “I...you see...L-Lumiere, if we continue this...perhaps we will see where it goes? I have no intention of saying ‘no,’ always, if that’s what you mean my stringing...”

“That’s what I mean.” Lumiere sighed, smiling at him. “I suppose ‘maybe’ must suffice for now, hmm?”

“If you can accept that.”

“Yes, fine. Patience is just one of my many virtues,” Lumiere smirked.

Cogsworth rolled his eyes. “Smashing. Pray takes yourself out of the way, then.”

They might’ve shared a few kisses in the elevator, but they went to bed separately.

\--

Pleakley gathered all his courage as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Okay. Okay, he could do this. He could seduce. Hell yeah, he was crazy seductive! His wig and makeup were perfect, and the little black negligee was sexy and beautiful and looked amazing on him.

He could totally go in there and just talk the man of his dreams into his bed. Absolutely.

No problem.

He took a deep breath and tried to think sexy thoughts. Go. Do it. Make him yours.

He stepped out of the bathroom, looking at the man sitting up in bed. He had his glasses sliding down his nose and he was reading that little Russian novel again.

Pleakley cleared his throat, and the way Jumba’s eyes widened and his neck and cheeks began to flush gave him fresh confidence. “Hey, Jumba?” 

“Da?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y’know? And pretending to be in love all that time, too...” Pleakley took one step forward.

“Da, I know.”

“Well...” Another step. “I guess you know me pretty well by now, right? And one might say that I know you pretty well, too.”

“This is true. Little one, what--”

“So you know I like men...and I think you know I really, really like you. Like, more-than-friends like you.” He took another step forward, pleased by the fact that Jumba wasn’t calling a stop to what had to be the world’s most obvious seduction. “Like, love you and stuff.”

Jumba might’ve swallowed. Pleakley sat down on his bed. Yes, I know this.”

“Yeah. You’re a smart guy, I figured you had to know,” Pleakley replied. He dared a hand on Jumba’s thigh under the blanket. “And I know you well enough to say that you like me a lot, but that you’re pretty straight, and you like women. The only thing is, I also know that you’ve been looking at me a lot lately. My legs and my butt and my mouth. So...I guess I wanna know if you like what you see? And do you wanna do something about it?”

Somehow this wasn’t coming out all confident and smoky and sexy like he’d started. He bit his lip a little, looking up at Jumba shyly. The big man took a deep breath, and sat for a moment, looking back at Pleakley and thinking. He smiled sadly at him as he released his breath.

“Little one...I am thinking, is taking great courage to say this, yes?” Jumba said, putting a hand on Pleakley’s shoulder. Pleakley nodded. “I tell you now, at start: you picked broken man to love, Pleakley. I am no good at love. Never remembering dates or knowing what ex-wife wanted, and cannot feel people’s feelings too well. Is very frustrating, I am told. Always unlucky with romance. It will be very hard.”

“I don’t care about that stuff,” Pleakley said softly. “I just know I love you. I love you so much. If you can’t love me, then you need to tell me.”

“Is not that I am not loving you! I am loving you. Maybe more than her. Is just...something I am bad at. You will be disappointed many times, I am thinking. Because is new to me, little one. Outside my experience. Never had person like you before.”

“What are you talking about?” Pleakley asked quietly. He didn’t want to leap to any conclusions...but it really, really sounded like he wasn’t being rejected.

“If little one is very sure, and will agree to take slow, I am willing to try being real couple.” His firm, rather grim expression broke into a slight smile, a little sheepish, even a little scared. “Heh. Bad at romancing, but is too much for me, getting jealous of other men without having reason and staring at body and having to pretend not to be. Think I am loving you no matter how bad I am at it.”

Pleakley quivered. His heart was throbbing in his chest, threatening to just explode. He--they--they could--he’d--together--oh God-- “What?! Really?! We can?! Oh, Jumba!”

He threw himself into the bigger man’s arms and planted a kiss right on his mouth, before pecking his cheeks and jaw and neck and back up again. “Oh, I love you, I really love you, even though you’re kind of insane and a little evil and you have a nemesis and you drive me crazy--”

Jumba chuckled, grabbing Pleakley by the arms. “Ah, little one--you are not taking slow, like you promised.”

“I promise I’ll start in the morning,” Pleakley said, feeling a little breathless. “Can I just...do something to you now? Just right now. It won’t be anything big. Just...a little something, nothing new, just so I know this is real.”

Jumba lifted an eyebrow, his smile becoming a little more like a smirk. “Oh? What is it you are wanting?”

“Let me blow you,” Pleakley said, feeling a mischievous smile breaking out onto his own face as the smirk disappeared from Jumba’s. His boyfriend--wasn’t that an amazing thing to say?!--looked a little startled that Pleakley knew and used words like that.

Oh, he had so much to teach him.

“Just a blowjob. I can make it quick,” he added with a little wink. “And then we can sleep in the same bed, and I promise I’ll go really, really slowly with you until you’re one hundred percent used to everything. Please? Just this one, tiny little thing?”

“You are...really wanting to do that?”

“Oh God yes,” Pleakley insisted, his voice growing a little husky.

Jumba swallowed again, some of his earlier nervousness back. “I...have had before, so know what is like from woman...if you are sure you are wanting to do this...”

“I can?”

“Da. But then we go slow.”

“Like a snail,” Pleakley confirmed, kissing his mouth.

Kissing they had down pat. They’d always kissed, though usually it was just Pleakley kissing Jumba’s cheek and nothing more. But now...well, this was a different kiss. A lover’s kiss. Pleakley sighed a little with sheer delight as Jumba slipped his tongue into his mouth. The other man certainly knew how to kiss, how to firmly, gently control the touch, leaving Pleakley a little breathless and warmly eager to feel Jumba controlling the rest of his body, too.

All in good time, though. For now, he got to make the man’s world shrink down to the size of Pleakley’s mouth.

He kissed Jumba’s lips until he had to part for breath, smiling as the scientist’s big, heavy hands ran up and down and over his back, petting his skin through the satin of his nightdress. Pleakley unbuttoned his pajama top, kissing his neck and collarbones and humming a little--at last. How many fantasies had he had about this man’s big, broad, hairy chest? He was delicious. Pleakley wanted to eat him up.

He spent some time just enjoying Jumba’s body, his broad, thick chest and his heavy middle. His belly was soft but slightly firm, and Pleakley loved it. Jumba was overweight, but he wasn’t obese. He was overweight because he was packed to the gills with testosterone and muscle and hot, thick blood, not fat.

He let himself just kiss Jumba’s mouth for dozens of long, luxurious moments, enjoying thoroughly the way the man was reacting to his touch. A hand had run down as advance guard and was currently rubbing between Jumba’s legs. Pleakley nearly moaned right then and there as he got the scope of his new lover. Like everything about the man, he was big, and thick, and he had Pleakley’s mouth watering. As Pleakley touched and kissed him, he was delighted to feel his prick hardening--he’d been half-afraid that Jumba’s uncertainty would make this impossible.

No such thing. Look at that, he was good at seducing after all!

Pleakley kissed him one more time and gave him a smutty look, licking his lips as he slid down the bed, pushing covers out of the way. Jumba had obligingly parted his legs for him already, and Pleakley bit his lip in anticipation as he peeled down the man’s pajama pants.

Ooh. No underwear. Very naughty.

“L-Little one...”

Pleakley smiled at him and winked, gently running a hand up and down the hot, heavy tool that he’d revealed. “My goodness, Dr. Jookiba...this is impressive! Mind if I experiment with it a little?”

“D-Da, fine, you can touch...”

“Oh, thank you,” Pleakley giggled. “Do me a favor, huh? Look at me the whole time. I want you to know it’s me doing this to you. Don’t close your eyes.”

Jumba nodded shakily. “Fine. I will watch.”

“Attaboy,” Pleakley purred.

He kept one hand sliding up and down Jumba’s cock as he began to lightly kiss and lick him. Oh, goodness, it had to be years since he’d done this, and he was certain he’d never before pleasured a man he’d felt so much for. He loved doing this, loved how he could make his lover moan and twitch and scream with the smallest motions of his mouth.

He was going to make this man scream the building down.

He wrapped his mouth entirely around the head. He really would have to go slow, because it had been so long and he was so out of practice. Jumba groaned deeply, that low, delicious voice sending shivers down Pleakley’s spine; he moaned a little himself as one of Jumba’s hands came to rest on the back of his head.

“Is...oh, very good, little one, you are...very good at this...”

He carefully began to suck, wishing he’d had the foresight to prepare a little. He’d love nothing more than to be able to take this man deeper, to have him thick and hard and hot in his throat.

Later.

They had time. They were taking it slow, after all.

True to his word, Pleakley made it quick. He was rusty, but there were just some talents that you never lost. Jumba grew more vocal as it went on, and that revved Pleakley’s engine like mad; that, and the way that Jumba was obeying him. Every now and then Pleakley would glance up and see that those warm, dark eyes were still on him, though they were hazy with pleasure and obscured by a pair of jostled eyeglasses.

“Little harder, _solnyshko,_ ” he said, panting. His voice was impossibly deepening, his accent growing thicker. Oh, yes, yes, yes... “Can move harder--little rough is good...”

Pleakley would’ve smiled if he could. It inspired him to best himself--to take more, to please his lover better. He tightened his grip around his shaft, sucking him more firmly.

Jumba’s grip tightened before the end, and Pleakley wished, for once, that he’d not worn his wig, because he would’ve loved to feel those thick fingers tugging his hair a little. He stayed with him, swallowing his boyfriend down through his climax and smiling to see that he’d left him breathless and limp on their bed.

“How was that, sweetheart?” Pleakley asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Ew, his lipstick was everywhere. In fact, he glanced down at his handiwork, giggling a little to see Jumba covered with his slick red makeup. Oh well. It was time for bed anyway.

“I take back...all reservations,” Jumba said between breaths. “Going to get along...perfectly.”

Pleakley giggled. “Oh, you’re awful. Um...” All he really wanted was to curl up with his lover and fall asleep, but that little escapade had not left him unaffected. “Uh, let me just run to the bathroom real quick--”

“Come here,” Jumba said, taking Pleakley by the arm and pulling him close.

“W-What?”

“We are going fast tonight, yes? Can slow down tomorrow.” Jumba kissed him, and Pleakley thought for a moment that his heart was going to stop. “You are mine, now. Will not make you go somewhere else for this.”

He’d been stammering when his lover’s big, warm hands slid up his legs. He shut up quickly, not wanting to even pretend to be protesting. If Jumba wanted to touch him, well, he was here to be touched. “Oh...Jumba...”

The smirk on the man’s face was utterly sinful. He didn’t have to look so darn smug about it, did he? Pleakley didn’t look that smug when he was blowing him, he was certain.

“You like this, little one?” he asked, his voice dripping honey as he slid a hand between Pleakley’s thighs and began to rub him. No hesitation, no brief revulsion--just a sudden, hot, firm grip.

Pleakley thought he’d shake apart. “Ohh, God, yes, yes I do...”

Jumba pushed his dress up, shocking Pleakley by exposing him. There was no way to pretend this was what he would do for a woman, now--the evidence of Pleakley’s maleness was on clear display. To be honest, Pleakley found it rather dirty and exciting, to be exposed like this to the cool air of the bedroom.

“You look very pretty, little one,” Jumba purred. “I am liking dress very much.” 

“U-Uh?”

“Mm-hmm. Is very sexy. You have been very sexy all last days...do not know what you do to man, do you?”

Pleakley whimpered and clutched at Jumba’s shoulders, bucking his hips to try to push himself nearer. He had to hold out, had to last, but this man’s hand and mouth brooked no argument. Pleakley was in his grasp entirely.

Not that he minded, at all.

“Poor little one. Think you are needing this, da? Do not worry, will be taking care of you, make you feel good.”

Then, no more of those incredibly distracting words, because Jumba was kissing him like he’d always wanted to be kissed. Firm and warm, a smirk against his mouth, and so perfectly dominant, in control but not aggressive. He tasted good, he felt good, he was warm and brilliant and wicked and he was all, all Pleakley’s--

That was all he could take. Jumba smirked fiendishly at his little gasping cry as he lost control, and kissed his neck warmly. Pleakly really prided himself on having a little more restraint than this but, hey, what could he say? He was in love.  Jumba reached across him to the bedside table and took a few tissues, cleaning them up a little and tossing them on the nightstand. Pleakley righted his dress and sighed luxuriously, kissing his boyfriend with his heart bursting in his chest.

“I love you so much,” he murmured.

“Da, little one. I know. Loving you, too.”

“Tomorrow we’ll start over, real slow, I promise.”

Jumba kissed the top of his head. “Fine. Sleep now, little one.”

Pleakley smiled and nuzzled up, resting his cheek against Jumba’s chest, letting himself relax.

After a few minutes, half-asleep, he heard, “...little one?”

“Hmm?” he said, dozing.

“Do not have to go too slow. We can move at reasonable speed.”

Pleakley grinned a little. “Whatever you want, sweetie. Whatever you want.”

\--

“Well, I am shocked.”

 “Shut up."

“I am truly shocked. Shocked and...saddened, my boy, really quite torn up. This must be appalling. You’re right to come to me.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s too much to be borne, really, to spend all that time on someone and get nothing. Spend all that time and be rejected, in fact. I don’t blame you for being upset, not at all. I hope it wasn’t love, was it?”

“Shut up. You’ve served your purpose. Now, leave.”

“And abandon you in your moment of despair? My dearest, I would never,” Shere Khan smirked, puffing on his cigar. Ah, Scar was always very charming when he was angry. Hate-fueled sex was always something of an experience with him, not that their usual tete-a-tetes weren’t generally pleasant. The night he’d found out that he had a nephew had been quite...intense.

Now, Shere Khan was covered in bite marks, well-satisfied, and deeply amused.

“You loathsome bastard, I--”

“Come now, my dear, dear friend, at least have a smoke. You mustn’t work yourself up over him. Plenty of fish in the sea, my dear boy. You shall find one who treats your heart with greater care,” Shere Khan said, snorting a little at the end.

“I hate you. Get out.”

It was now that their language came in handy. Certainly, Scar really did mean that he hated Shere Khan--many times, the feeling was mutual, after all--but Shere Khan knew the man didn’t want him to leave. Not, really, that it would matter if he had.

Scar just wanted him to stop talking.

Shere Khan could afford to be merciful.

After a few moments’ silence, Scar rolled over onto his back and took a cigarette off the end table. Shere Khan held a light for him. “Thank you.”

Scar sat up, the sheets falling negligently to his lap. “I would like it on the record that the problem is not me. He wants me. It’s patently obvious to everyone that he wants me. Do you agree?”

He had to admit that he had seen the way the little fellow had looked at Scar. Trepidation, naturally--but also some very, very ashamed desire.

“I think I can agree there.”

“Of course. The problem is that he is one of those sorts that needs a connection. It is hardly my fault if he cannot ground a connection in me. I have been nothing but accommodating.”

“This is true.” It was hilarious, in fact, to watch how far Scar had been willing to bend over backwards.

“He lacks certain abilities. He’s damaged goods, although he doesn’t look it. Certainly not my problem,” Scar said decisively, taking a slow drag on his cigarette.

“I think you have it there, my dear,” Shere Khan smirked. “Well, it was an excellent try, I daresay, all the more impressive because of the handicap of your mark. And it’s better to find these things out sooner rather than later, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. How dismaying, to waste further time on him.”

“Indeed. Now you will find yourself more focused on what’s important.”

“Such as?”

“Your relationships, for one, will likely become more consistent and satisfying,” Shere Khan said, stubbing out his cigar.

“Do you really think so?”

“I can quite nearly guarantee it,” Shere Khan replied, smirking faintly. “After all, your attention will be on them more consistently.”

“Interesting theory. I shall have to try it out.” Scar stubbed out his cigarette and smirked back, rolling over to prop himself up above Shere Khan. “How should be test this intriguing conception of yours?”

Shere Khan flashed his teeth in a grin and enjoyed the novelty of Scar’s undivided attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song list, for those interested:
> 
> Fred Heatherton's 'I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts'  
> Lily Allen's 'Who'd Have Known'  
> John Prine's 'She Is My Everything'  
> While 'Gilg Arra Mountain' is an old traditional folk song, I was listening to Peter, Paul, and Mary's version of it--a lovely one, if you can find it.  
> Edith Piaf's 'La Vie En Rose'  
> Queen's 'You're My Best Friend'  
> Caro Emerald's 'Doctor Wanna Do.' If you check out any of these, let it be this one.
> 
> Obviously, I own none of these, and I'm not making any money off of this.


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end

He wasn’t sure how it came to this, but neither was he all that upset by it.

Perhaps he should be. After all, it’s not exactly in character for him, is it, to be quite satisfied in this position. But then again, he had fought the good fight as far as he could and did his best to object while it was still reasonable to do so.

The trick is knowing when to quit. Cogsworth didn’t have the patience to fight a losing battle.

So when he found himself half naked and planted firmly on his bed, an excited Frenchman pinning him by his wrists, as if he still expects that Cogsworth would bolt off if allowed, and grinding their hips together...well, he knew when he was licked. There was dignity in accepting one’s defeat with grace. 

He had the vague suspicion that they are both going to win this time, and that does make everything more palatable.

He’d held out quite a long while. For a month after their first date, they’d gone out to dinner and shows, met for tea and took in films. They’d even spent long afternoons in each other’s apartments, when Lumiere wanted to cook or the weather was too appallingly hot to do anything but sit on the sofa and try not to melt. 

He was a little surprised by just how intensely he had wanted to go to bed with Lumiere. It really didn’t take as long as he’d thought it should for that tiny little subversive part of his mind to infect the rest of him. His body sided almost immediately with that part, with Lumiere and his traitorous sex drive working together, he had to admit that he probably wouldn’t have much of a chance at resisting. Lumiere picked up on the mental divide and shamelessly took sides, behaving himself one moment, flirting the next. The not-infrequent kisses they exchanged did nothing to dampen the fire, although before tonight Cogsworth had always called a halt to the proceedings before they got this far.

Tonight was different. He had completely run out of excuses, and frankly, he was glad of it. Reason had been unsteady ever since he and Lumiere had met, and he was rather excited to finally allow it to topple over and out of the way. It had become very difficult to convince himself that getting physical with the man was a terrible idea.

He was beginning to see that it was not, at all, a terrible idea. In fact, it might just be the best idea.

“ _Mon coeur, mon amour, mon beau, mon petit chou-fleur,_ ” Lumiere whispered between kisses. Cogsworth wrinkled his nose a bit at the last one. He had looked up a few of the little things Lumiere called him half a month ago, having found a French dictionary amongst his old school books. It was really quite touching, realizing that Lumiere had been calling him ‘his heart,’ ‘his love,’ ‘his handsome one,’ but he could do just as well not being called ‘his little cauliflower.’

“That’s lovely,” he murmured encouragingly, as Lumiere nibbled his way down Cogsworth’s neck. Ever since those kisses in the hotel room, Lumiere had developed a serious fondness for Cogsworth’s neck and shoulders. The man just gravitated towards them.

The man was really very odd.

Lumiere was not heavy, but he was incredibly bony, and his sharp hips were even now pressing into Cogsworth’s pelvis. He couldn’t quite be aggravated by that, because the way the man rolled and ground their bodies together was far and away sufficiently distracting to take the edge off of the discomfort. 

He could feel Lumiere, hard and hot against him. That was a surprisingly wonderful feeling, having this man aroused and hungry for him. He’d never, ever thought anyone would feel that way about him, much less someone like Lumiere--but it was quite a shot in the arm to his ego.

He’d certainly never thought he’d see Lumiere like this. The man was so shockingly earnest in his desire. It was rather boggling to think that all this time, that hammy, over-the-top flirtation and ostentatious affection had been real. It was so wonderful.

Lumiere pulled away from him for a moment, releasing Cogsworth’s wrists to tear, almost frantically, at his own clothes. His words were nearly lost as he threw his vest off into a corner and hastily unbuttoned his shirt. “If you say we must stop, we shall, _cher_.” He sat upright for a few moments, looking at Cogsworth with hungry eyes. “Though I must say that you would be a shame to waste,” he added in a purr.  
 “I’ll let you know,” Cogsworth agreed. Here, now, he had no desire to stop this. In a few minutes, if he panicked...well, it was nice to know that Lumiere would take it slowly.

He didn’t want it slow, though. He wanted it fast, and rough, and right bloody now--

Somehow his thoughts had gotten quite vulgar. He wasn’t sure how that had happened.

They were kissing again, hands everywhere. Lumiere grinned as they went in for another kiss, and Cogsworth couldn’t remember ever having seen the man so far from the usual suave, debonair creature he usually knew. He was positively giddy!

He hesitantly placed his hands on Lumiere’s back, shivering a little. He’d never touched so much bare skin before, and certainly not so much that was so warm and smooth. It felt like Lumiere had a flame burning under his skin, and as the man’s hips drove him further and further to distraction, he found himself feeling as if he were on fire, too. 

It had been going so well until he began to perspire. In the middle of a long, rather luscious kiss, Lumiere’s hand slipped off his stomach and Cogsworth froze, suddenly mortified. Here he was, beached on his bed, fat and sweating like an over-exerted whale, pallid and clammy when compared to the lithe, lightly-tanned, slimly muscled Frenchman above him--

Lumiere must’ve caught on to his thoughts, because the next thing he did was to grab Cogsworth’s head and give him a burning kiss, before sliding down his body to nuzzle his stomach and kiss his skin.

“You are completely delicious,” he whispered, his voice husky and dizzingly dark with desire. “If you doubt it, I will prove it to you.”

Cogsworth swallowed spasmodically. “How on earth--”

“I will personally taste every inch of you,” Lumiere said, one of his hands pushing between Cogsworth’s legs to fondle him. He couldn’t stop his gasp, and Lumiere grinned. “Especially here.”

“Oh--good heavens--!”

“You like that, _mon coeur?_ ” Lumiere purred, as Cogsworth felt himself bloody well throb against the man’s hand. “Ooh, I think you do...what would you like, Cogsworth? My hand? My mouth? Shall I teach you to swim or throw you in the deep end?”

He had to laugh a little at that, though he couldn’t maintain it long. It quickly trailed off into a groan, and he had to bite his lip to restrain it. 

Lumiere nipped his belly. “ _Cher._ What did I tell you about stifling your sounds?” He leaned up, smiling, to kiss him. “I happen to find them extremely erotic. Don’t deprive me.”

What on earth could one say to that? “If you--oh God--if you insist...”

“So? What will you have, _mon tres cher ami?_ I am more than willing for anything...”

“I bet you are, you horny madman,” Cogsworth breathed. He sat up, chasing the man who had slid to nearly the foot of his bed. “Come here.”

Lumiere slithered up, grinning as he straddled Cogsworth’s lap, that cheeky hand still rubbing firmly at him. “Better?”

“Very much,” Cogsworth breathed, kissing him and brazenly opening the man’s trousers. Lumiere gasped rather flatteringly as he slid his hand inside, laughing softly when Cogsworth clicked his tongue. “Oh, you are too bold.”

“Going commando is comfortable, I will have you know...”

“Hmph. Ease of access, perhaps, but not my idea of pleasant.”

“Stick in the mud.”

“Hedonist.”

Cogsworth pumped him and Lumiere shivered rather nicely. “Oh...you appear to know your way around,” he said with a filthy smile.

“Oh, hush. Don’t be vulgar.”

Lumiere bit his lip for a moment, rutting his hips shamelessly. “I beg you to tell me when there is a better time to be vulgar than when you are giving me a hand-job,” he sighed, kissing him.

Cogsworth did find that rather hard to argue with. He had to admit that he felt rather like being vulgar as well. 

“What do you want?” Cogsworth asked after a few moment. “I...I have no...well, you have more experience in this kind of thing than I do,” he admitted haltingly.

“Ah, _oui_ ,” he murmured. Lumiere smiled. “I know precisely what to do. “Release me for a moment.”

Cogsworth didn’t want to, but he removed his hands from the Frenchman’s person and smiled faintly as he was kissed. It would be fine. Lumiere wouldn’t do anything drastic--he thought--and if he got out of hand, well, Cogsworth had size on him. It was going to be fine. He couldn’t feel anything like threatened, although he was excitedly nervous. He had to admit that it was a rather enjoyable feeling.

Lumiere bounced off of the bed and hurried out the door, returning in seconds. The man looked painfully handsome, in nothing but his trousers and skin. His stiff prick jutted proudly through the open gap in his trousers and Cogsworth had to blush a bit.

He tossed a small plastic bottle and a foil-wrapped package onto the bed. Grinning, he stood away from the mattress, aping at a rather pointless striptease as he removed his trousers.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, as if you aren’t quite naked enough,” Cogsworth grumbled. He didn’t roll his eyes, though. Frankly, he couldn’t take them off of the man.

“Don’t stare, _cher,_ it’s impolite,” Lumiere said with a smirk. He lifted an eyebrow. “Take them off.”

Cogsworth didn’t stop staring, but he did unbutton his own trousers and hastily push them, and his underwear, off. He felt a brief moment of that horrible, humiliating exposure, but the way Lumiere licked his lips and got on the bed, crawling toward him in a way precisely designed to flaunt his beautiful body, put a stop to that concern very quickly.

Lumiere took his place straddling Cogsworth’s lap again, snatching up the bottle. 

“What on earth is that?” he asked, shuddering a little as their bodies rubbed together. Oh, good lord--the removal of clothing made an enormous difference. This was incredible...

“Lubricant,” Lumiere replied, nibbling his neck. Cogsworth’s back stiffened and sudden panic thrilled through him.

“I’m certain I’m not ready to--”

“For me, _petit,_ ” he murmured. He kissed him with an utterly dirty smile, chuckling as Cogsworth shuddered. 

“Are you quite--”

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m going to have to take drastic measures,” Lumiere breathed, and the heated promise in his voice assured Cogsworth that he need have no further concern about his partner’s willingness.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Cogsworth cautioned again. Lumiere bit his lips when they kissed.

“I am going to cure you of your aversion to vulgarity,” Lumiere promised. He popped open the bottle and seized Cogsworth’s hand, pouring out the fluid onto his palm. “Come here.”

“What am I supposed to--oh.” He blushed darkly as Lumiere smiled at him wickedly and tugged his hand between his legs and behind his genitals. 

“One first,” Lumiere said softly, his inviting smile just the sort of thing the devil would wear when he was at his most tempting. 

Cogsworth swallowed and steeled his nerves, trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t come off just from the thought of what he was about to do to this man. He bit the inside of his cheek and lightly brushed his finger across Lumiere’s opening.

“I am not made of glass, _mon beau,_ ” Lumiere smirked. “You can touch me...and you can make eye contact too, for that matter.”

Cogsworth looked up at him to glare. “Well, excuse me! One has to admit that this is a little out of the ordinary!”

“For you, perhaps,” Lumiere laughed. “Oh, _mon coeur,_ your virginity is showing.”

Cogsworth felt his cheeks blaze with heat. Propelled by embarrassed determination, he pushed one finger inside the other man.

Suddenly that embarrassment disappeared as Lumiere groaned and squirmed. A flush of heat rose up the man’s neck and into his cheeks, and he breathed out in a few heavy puffs. 

“Hah...you are more eager than I had expected,” he said, swallowing. “That’s...crook your finger towards yourself, Cogsworth, _s’il tu plaît._ ”

Cogsworth obeyed, watching with fascination as Lumiere moan aloud as he pressed gently against the inside of the man. 

“Oh! Oh, enough, _mon beau, mon amour, mon tres, tres--_ oh! Not yet, _cher,_ I shall embarrass myself--!”

He rather intensely wanted to make Lumiere embarrass himself. Exercising a considerable amount of will power, he refrained, instead withdrawing his finger slightly. 

“Now two.”

Rolling his eyes at the imperative tone of Lumiere’s voice, Cogsworth gently pressed two fingers inside him, smiling as that delightful little gasp returned. He was so incredibly hot, so tight--it sent shivers down Cogsworth’s spine to imagine what it would feel like to push inside him. The man moaned so nicely and closed his eyes, wearing a lovely expression of concentration and intense enjoyment. He had to do something about it.

Cogsworth kissed the hollow of Lumiere’s throat, nibbling gently at his flesh. He tasted of salt and flesh and smelled faintly of soap. He slid his fingers in and out of the welcoming body, faintly amused by how easy it was and what eager little noises Lumiere made.

“I rather suspect you want this badly,” he murmured. 

Lumiere breathed out a laugh, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and rocking his hips down against his hand. “ _Mon dieu,_ you can have no idea...it has been an eternity, _mon amour,_ you find me desperate...”

“It’s a good look on you,” he smirked. “Another?”

“One more,” Lumiere agreed. “And then--oh, oh _oui_ \--t-then you.” As if reminded of something, he seized the foil wrapper and tore it open, expert hands rolling it onto Cogsworth’s cock and dousing it in lubricant.

Cogsworth chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the hands stroking him, and pushed another finger into the other man.

After a few more moments, Lumiere squirmed his hips urgently. “Now. Now, or I will lose my mind!”

Cogsworth paused for an instant, just to take in the sight of the man. He was panting, hot to the touch, slightly sweaty. His hair had partly fallen out of his ponytail and his eyes were alive with need. He was flushed, naked, incredibly aroused; his tongue peeked out to wet his lips and he closed his eyes, moaning softly as Cogsworth withdrew his fingers.

“ _Maintenant, maintenant, je t’en prie, aie pitié!_ ” he whispered desperately, kissing Cogsworth’s mouth with no technique and less patience.

He was going to look that up in the dictionary, first thing. 

Right after this.

He took himself in hand and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm and to think about cold things as Lumiere sank down on him. He pushed through the tense ring of muscle, groaning aloud. His hips bucked before he could stop them and Lumiere cried out.

“Sorry! Sorry, so very sorry,” he blurted. Lumiere’s hands fluttered on his shoulders, patting lightly.

“It’s all right,” he said in a tight voice, and it cut Cogsworth to the quick to think that he’d hurt him. “Your first time...just...just a moment...”

Cogsworth kissed his cheeks apologetically. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

Lumiere laughed softly, thought the tension was sharp in his voice. “Yes, yes, you have not destroyed me...perhaps I should have said nothing, if now you will fuss like a mother hen.”

“Nonsense. Just don’t allow me to injure you.”

“I will not. Kiss me, _mon beau._ ”

Their mouths met, and they remained still, mouths and hands moving though their bodies did not. It took nearly all of Cogsworth’s willpower to keep from simply humping the man like a dog, but he held fast, kissing him gently until Lumiere finally sighed and smiled and kissed his jaw.

“ _Allez-on,_ ” he whispered.

Cogsworth slowly rocked his hips, groaning aloud as he sank more deeply into his partner. Oh, good God, he was perfection, he was divine! Nothing could feel this good, nothing had _ever_ felt this good! He moaned his appreciation and rolled his hips again, pushing back and forth into the man. 

Lumiere clutched at him, short nails scratching his skin as he clung to him. A litany of French came out, possibly profanity, possibly endearment. Cogsworth wasn’t exactly listening for vocabulary--what he heard in Lumiere’s voice spoke enough about growing pleasure and diminishing pain, about desire and affection, that he didn’t need to know precisely what he was saying.

He spared a hand and wrapped it around the other man’s prick, stealing with a smirk the sweet, breathless noise he made as Cogsworth began to stroke him. Yes, this was what he’d been missing--this was it, what he’d always wanted, what he’d needed, what he’d been starving for...

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, words pouring out before he could filter them. “Such a beautiful man. That’s lovely, mmm, move like that again...it’s unfair, you poncy git, you temptation--oh, good, that’s just right...no one should be irresistible, but there you are, teasing me, tormenting me...” He nibbled on Lumiere’s earlobe, smiling at the outpouring of breathless French. “I’m going to think of this now, you know. The next time you--oh, Lumiere, Lumiere...the next time torture me, I’m going to remember how hot and tight you are around me and--oh, yes--and I’m going to give you such a smirk...”

Lumiere gave him a breathless grin, rocking his hips down, hard. “You...mmm, you are good at dirty talk, Cogsworth, who would have--oh, oh...!”

“Too much, love?” Cogsworth asked sweetly, pumping him firmly and grinning against his neck. He pulsed his hips against the man, smirking broadly as he lost his grip on English again and was reduced to bucking and clawing and needy French once more. “Hold tight, just a moment--”

He sat up and forward, and tumbled Lumiere onto his back. The man clung to him, scratching down his back as he slipped out. “Finissez-moi!”

“In good time, dearest,” Cogsworth murmured. His hips free to move, he began to thrust, pushing deeply into Lumiere with every buck. The bed began to rock slightly, and he growled, holding himself up with one hand as he stroked Lumiere with the other.

“Oh, lovely,” he whispered. “Oh, you are a treat, lovely thing...is this what you like? Is this what you wanted, Lumiere? God, how I wanted you, you shameless creature...and now I’ve got you, and you are so good...you’re merciless, you randy little tart, if you want it, why, you’ll get it and then some...”

Lumiere moaned and squirmed and shivered beneath him, interrupting him to kiss him every few moments. The Frenchman whispered against his mouth, indecipherable things that made him wish that he’d paid better attention to his foreign language classes. The pitch in the man’s voice drew desperate, as if he was near to pain. Cogsworth had a feeling of what was coming, and quickened his touches, biting the man’s earlobe as he pounded into him, determined to give him all and to get everything in return.

Lumiere’s body tightened around him and the man went stiff in his arms, crying out. Cogsworth groaned, his own hips bucking out of control as the sight and sound and sensation of Lumiere’s orgasm triggered his own. He shivered violently, artlessly thrusting into the other man. 

They lay panting for a few moments. Cogsworth’s arms could not hold him, and he managed to pull out and slump over onto his side to avoid crushing the other man. 

“ _Sacre dieu,_ ” Lumiere groaned. “You are an animal, Cogsworth. Passionate Englishmen indeed.”

“Oh, hush,” Cogsworth muttered, turning onto his back and trying not to let the giddy, ridiculous smile break through to the surface. “I suppose that was rather good, it’s true.”

“Rather good? I doubt the legitimacy of your virginity, _mon coeur,_ for if that was a first time, it was superb,” Lumiere said, looking over at him with a grin. He took a corner of the sheets and mopped the mess off his belly, grabbing Cogsworth’s hand to wipe it, too. “Well done, _cher,_ I commend you.”

“Hm. Now you know what there is to be experienced,” Cogsworth said, Reason racing back to exert its control. “I trust it meets your standards?”

Lumiere clicked his tongue, draping himself over Cogsworth’s front. “Are you cold already, _mon amour?_ I had hoped I would have a few moments of afterglow with you.” Lumiere pecked his lips. “Do not be chilly now, Cogsworth, it is not becoming of a boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? Is that what I am?”  
 “ _Mais oui._ ”

Cogsworth couldn’t let that lie. “Do I get a say in this?”

“ _Non._ You want to be my boyfriend, I want you to be my boyfriend, so you are my boyfriend. Deal with it.” Lumiere smirked at him. “ _Je t’aime, mon cher adversaire._ ”

Love? Not...not quite yet. He was already a little too in love with the man for his own tastes as it was. He’d wait a little while before letting himself fall any farther.

Cogsworth smiled. “Yes, well. Fine. Have your way, I’m sure you’ll take it whether I permit it or not.”

Lumiere grinned at him and kissed him.

They kissed and chatted for a little while longer, before Cogsworth’s eyelids began to droop. Lumiere turned off the bedside lamp and kissed his cheek, snuggling up beside him. Cogsworth threw an arm around him and let him cuddle close.

In the dark, Lumiere’s voice suddenly floated into his ears. “Will you really be thinking about being inside me the next time I tease you? Kinky, _mon coeur._ ”

Cogsworth grumbled. “Lumiere, go to sleep.”

There was a little bit of laughing, and then peace.


End file.
